


No Barren Moon

by Rynfinity



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Extremely Dubious Consent, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2014-01-11
Packaged: 2018-01-06 20:13:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rynfinity/pseuds/Rynfinity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happens between the end of The Avengers and the start of Thor:  The Dark World...  Thor loses Loki along the way, and Thanos' boys deliver.</p><p>This might explain why every time we lose sight of Loki, he comes out the other side a whole lot the worse for wear.</p><p>  <b>WARNING:  This is rather dark, with some graphic references to whomp and torture and to past non-con/dub-con experiences.  Most things of that nature happen off-screen but, still, tread carefully.  Don't say you weren't warned.</b></p><p>Most of the characters aren't mine.  The plot bunny for this came from something Coney wrote recently, but I'm sure she wasn't hoping I might be this sort of inspired.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No Vacation, for Sure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This got at best a quick edit - comments and corrections always welcome.

"I left very specific instructions; instructions with absolutely no wiggle room, no space for personal interpretation. I am completely confident my directions were crystal clear. So, I need one of you to explain this to me right fucking now, and it'd better be good: _Why_ is- is Thor's brother back in that contraption?" The prison officer gestures at the video feed, where a starved-looking, bedraggled, dead-eyed god of mischief can be seen slumped in the near corner of the holding cell.

The bottom half of Loki's face is once again hidden behind the muzzle he sported at his departure for Asgard, the same muzzle the good people of S.H.I.E.L.D. - even Director Fury; Fury who'd been right there when Loki had killed Agent Coulson, one of Fury's own… and certainly they of all people have a right to be as comfortable with its use as anyone does - feel is inhumane and inappropriate for further application.

The guards exchange furtive looks; no one says a thing. The officer glares at his men, one after another. "In case I somehow wasn't sufficiently clear, I expect one of you to explain. None of us will be leaving this room, in fact, until you do."

The guards fidget uncomfortably, looking everywhere but at their superior. Well, everywhere but at him, and at the monitor. Finally the youngest one clears his throat. "We- um- we had to, sir. He- we- um..." He trails off, face bright pink.

The officer's frown deepens. "Go on."

"He- we don't know what his problem is. It's almost like he's been brainwashed or something," the young guard grits out in a tumbling rush. "We can't go in his cell without it on, not even to provide- to provide necessary medical care."

"He attacks you?" The officer's skepticism is surely written plain as day across his face - their prisoner cannot even stand unassisted, or feed himself. He's scarcely a threat.

"Not exactly, sir. He- he tries to- er- provide favors. Sexual favors, I mean. He seems to think he must."

The officer blinks. "He _what?!_ "

The guard carefully studies his boots, as if perhaps the secrets of the universe are written there. "He- we can't get close to him, even to feed him or care for his wounds, without him- um- without him going for our zippers, sir."

"And he's still not talking?"

"No sir." The guard is almost able to make eye contact again, for that.

It's not what he was expecting, that's for sure. "You're serious. Everyone?"

To a man - no women work the men's supervised detention block - they nod.

~

Once he's released them - and never before have they raced back to work with such enthusiasm! - the officer grabs a wand and goes to the prisoner's cell. "I'm coming in," he warns via the intercom grille; he is careful not to shout, but even so Loki jumps and looks about frantically, eyes wild above the dull metal muzzle.

The officer cracks the door open. "Shh. I'm not here to hurt you," he reassures as Loki scuttles away. "I just want to talk with you." As he moves into the room Loki backs into the far corner, eyes glued to the wand. "This here? This is solely for my protection. If you don't try to hurt me, you have my word; I won't use it. Won't even turn it on." He holds it out for Loki to see; Loki turns away, burying his emaciated face in the corner.

_Good grief, what did they do to you?_

He secures the door and squats, sitting on his heels just to one side of the doorframe, carefully keeping the panic button within easy reach. "I'm Staff Officer Arlington. Michael Arlington. I go by Mike. You're Loki, right?"

Loki nods, still pressed tightly into the corner. He's utterly filthy, hair hanging in limp strings and skin mottled grey-brown with dirt, old bruises, and dried blood.

"You understand English, right? The language I am speaking?"

Another nod.

"Okay, good. Look, I want to get that thing back off you," - he gestures towards the muzzle, even though Loki is still mostly facing the wall - "but from what my men tell me you and I need to have a discussion about it first." He chuckles, even though it isn't funny. "Well, _I_ need to have a discussion. You- you just nod yes or shake your head no."

Loki nods.

"Can you look at me?"

That gets a head-shake. Okay, that's actually good, he reminds himself - the prisoner understands and is not just blindly nodding every time Mike's voice rises in question.

"Okay. That's okay. This is going to be kind of awkward anyway." He takes a deep breath. It's actually going to be very awkward, trying to counsel a- a Norse god, an alien, whatever he is about blowjobs and prison rules. "My men tell me you've been offering them-... sexual acts. I don't know how things work where you come from, Loki, or wherever you've recently been. But here, in this prison? We don't have sexual contact with anyone. Not you, not anyone. We won't ask you for it, and we don't want you to offer." Loki is watching his face now, out of the corner of one eye, but Mike can't see enough through all that hair to read the prisoner's expression. "I don't mean to insult you, if that's your culture, but we don't and can't allow it. Clear?"

Loki doesn't really nod; he does something with his head and shoulders that's closer to a shrug.

 _Great_. You'd really think S.H.I.E.L.D. might have mentioned any Really Weird Asgard Customs. Mike tries again: "Look, this would be easier if you could talk to me. But I need your assurance that, if I release the device," - he dangles the electronic key - "you will stay put and not try to touch me. Remember, I have this," he adds, holding up the wand.

This time, Loki clearly nods. When Mike gets to his feet and approaches with key in hand, the prisoner jams both hands in his own armpits; he's so tense he's visibly shaking.

"Shh," Mike soothes again. "I'm just going to release the device and pull it free, and then - as long as you don't come after me - I will hurry right back over there." He points to the wall by the door. "Okay?"

It's mostly a nod.

Mike can feel Loki vibrating before his own fingers touch the metal. This close the prisoner smells even worse than he looks; Mike stops to pull a pair of rubber gloves from his pocket - "just procedure where spit or blood are concerned; relax," he cautions as Loki jerks away with enough momentum to smack face-first against the wall - and dons them before proceeding. He carefully shifts Loki's hair and seats the key, trying to avoid digging the muzzle's straps into the lacerations and pressure sores down the back of the bony neck. "Easy, easy," he says, more just to be saying _something_ , as Loki pulls air in hard through the nose. "There, got it. Here we go."

Almost instantly Mike wishes he'd thought to bring a towel; the muzzle houses a complex assembly of plates and hooks, and there's saliva - and more than a little blood - everywhere by the time he works it completely free. He stifles a shudder, trying hard not to think about how much - how bad - the thing must hurt when it's fully engaged.

Loki, Mike's a little surprised to see, actually keeps his word; he huddles shaking in the corner, a few tears mixing with the bloody spit dripping off the raw, abraded mess that's the lower half of his face, and keeps his hands completely to himself.

"There, that's better," Mike says crisply, even though - from the look on Loki's face - it's not really clear it IS better. "Can you talk?"

The prisoner works his jaw. Coughs. Winces. "Yes," he rasps, voice soft and accent much like Thor's. "I can talk."

It's hard to remember this man - this being - was (is?) royalty, seeing him like this. He looks most like the dogs that sometimes come into the pound after raids; the ones the local low-lifes use for gambling, for dog-fighting. _Get ahold of yourself, Mike,_ he thinks. "Good. We need to talk about this sex acts thing. Is this an- Aesir? Asgardian? custom?"

"Aesir. And no." Loki looks at the floor, saliva dripping in long strings from his chin and darkening his ragged pant leg.

"Okay. Can you tell me what it's about?"

A violent tremor wracks Loki's skin-and-bones frame. "I cannot. I am not- permitted. Not allowed."

"Says who?" Mike's heard the guy has daddy issues but this is beyond ridiculous.

"T-them." Another shudder, bordering on seizing. At this rate the prisoner will shake himself to pieces before Mike learns anything useful.

He sighs. "Look, around here I make the rules," - he doesn't, he just enforces them, but he highly doubts this one (would-be conqueror or no) is an expert on Earth- on _Midgard_ legal systems - "and I say you need to tell me. We have people who can deal with _them_ if necessary." 

"You do not understand." The prisoner actually looks Mike full in the face for a change.

"Right you are," Mike responds, intentionally missing the point by a mile. "Please enlighten me."

"You are just mortals, you and your men." Loki coughs again, long and harsh this time, then ducks his head to wipe blood on a tattered sleeve. "Look what they've done to me. You? _You and your men_ would be obliterated."

Mike considers for a moment, watching Loki's face. For the first time he sees a faint spark of what must once have been there. Before. Before… _this_. "Okay, so you've been ordered not to speak of _them,_ and" - Mike gestures as Loki shudders - "there is some sort of compulsion involved." Before the prisoner can interrupt - not like the guy can answer anyway - Mike adds "I have an idea. I'll talk and you can shake your head _if I'm incorrect_ , or the answer is no." This is far from his first encounter with high-end hypnosis or brainwashing – he helps out the S.H.I.E.L.D. team, after all. Even when aliens are involved, stands to reason the logic would be much the same.

There's only so much room for variety when it comes to fucking up a person's head, after all.

Loki shrugs.

"Okay, let's give it a try: Your father did this to you."

Loki cringes, dull, sunken eyes narrowed to slits. When nothing happens, though, he shakes his head experimentally.

Perfect.

"Your father's men, then. His people," Mike clarifies, not sure if the king of Asgard's men might be women.

Another head-shake, this time without the wince or the hesitation.

Mike lets himself smile. Tells himself the quick little grimace the prisoner makes is a smile as well. They're playing a devious little game here after all; what sort of mischief god wouldn't like a nice naughty game?

Coming up with the proper questions isn't easy, especially since he doesn't want to put Loki's mangled body through any unnecessary shaking. It's delicate work but they do make slow headway. All in all, with only one or two missteps, Mike manages to - by reading carefully between the lines - learn a great deal. He's good at this, he is.

For example, it seems the Chitauri invasion in New York City was really just a side effect – a symptom - of something bigger; a trivial consequence, if you will, of someone far more powerful (or at least more terrifying, if you can gauge that by Loki's behavior) wanting to... well, kill everyone, from the look of it. Mike hasn't been able to come up with quite the right negatives to feed Loki on that last bit; he doesn't know _why_ the Big Dude wants everyone dead, but he's pretty sure the S.H.I.E.L.D. guys can get on that part and make quick sense of it.

It also seems that Loki has, well, failed somehow - Mike doesn't know enough backstory there to get more detail - and that _Thor never actually got his brother back to Asgard._ Well, _never got_ isn't quite right, as that lays the blame on Thor (whereas Loki, perhaps surprisingly from what Mike has heard around the office, seems not to) but it seems they were _separated in transit._ Meaning Loki took... a detour. Was taken on a detour.

A detour into some pretty nasty neighborhoods, by some pretty nasty-ass neighbors.

Puzzling out the sex acts bit is actually the most difficult part of the whole non-versation. There's something about barren (not in _that_ sense) moons ( _also_ not in _that_ sense), and about a fate worse than pain, and about wanting Loki alive. And about the Tesseract, but Mike knows that's so S.H.I.E.L.D.-confidential that it's above _God_ (the specific, not the present)'s pay grade so he shushes Loki right up on that topic. No need to court trouble.

Right, the sex. As best as Mike can figure, the - people? creatures? things? _Things_ it is - in charge of detouring and detaining Loki were- receptive to bribery. Demanding of it, even. If you learned their tastes and catered to them, quickly and without prompting, you might avoid a (re-re-re-)broken bone or an ugly burn. If you were a little too slow on the literal uptake, a little less-than-sincere-seeming, you won the Fuck Your Life Lottery and got the worst of both worlds - the opportunity to suck a few guards off, to take it up the ass, _and_ be beaten within an inch of your life.

In fact, to top it off... and this is where Mike, who has _fucking seen it all_ in this line of work, actually starts to get a little queasy... your pleasures might not even be delivered in that specific order. Because blood makes better lube than spit and all that.

"Well." It's really all he can think to say, when he and Loki finally finish up their lovely little chat.

"Um. Well. You have my word nothing like that is acceptable here," he tells Loki from across the cell. "But I do need to have a doctor - from what I hear you- you don't like our usual guy; he's the best we've got, but I’ll see if he can suggest a colleague instead - treat you. And none of that funny business with the doctor either. Absolutely none. Clear?"

Loki nods. He looks beyond exhausted, but - and Mike really hopes it's not just his own imagination playing tricks - his eyes look a little clearer. This prisoner? He kind of grows on a person.

~

Outside the secured cell, Mike digs out his phone. "Director? Get me Banner. No, on the phone. DO NOT send him in. And Nick? Whatever you do, don't send for Thor. I know, I know,” he concedes as Fury sputters. “But take my word for it: It's just too soon."


	2. Cleanup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently there was more of this... which could perhaps mean there is still more somewhere.
> 
> Loki needs a good scrubbing.

"I still think there's a strong chance Loki is holding out on us. My people have dealt with him before, Mike; I know you don’t like it, but you'll just have to trust me when I say you have no idea what he's capable of. Knowing the bastard, this could easily be an act. He's probably playing us for suckers and laughing about it somewhere inside that crazy fucking head of his."

Director Fury isn't feeling patient. Or charitable. Mike could see that the very instant he rushed into Fury's borrowed office, a hastily-repurposed conference room several floors above the prison itself, and nothing that's happened since his own graceless entrance has done anything to dispel that initial impression. Still, he presses on:

"I understand your concern, sir. I do. But _you_ have to trust _me_ on _this_ \- Loki is a war criminal and an alien prisoner, I realize, and we fully intend to detain him until we – with your team’s help, of course - can turn him safely back over to Asgard. But- the things he's gone through... he's not faking, Director, he's not. I've seen a lot of damaged people over the years, and even more fakers. Say what you may about Loki, and about the things he's done; the state he's in right now is real."

"So why doesn't he just heal himself? If he's so hard-up and all?"

Mike frowns. "I don't think he can. From what I understand he needs his magic to heal, so anything that damps magic-."

"Whoa, full stop, Mike. You can just quit talking right there. You know there is no way in hell I could - even if I wanted to, which I expressly _do not_ \- authorize containment deactivation. S.H.I.E.L.D. would have me shot. And if they somehow missed, rest assured good old Odin would finish the job."

Mike sees a tiny opening and takes it. He can play naive if he has to. "Oh, goodness, no! I would never think of asking you for something like that." He dons his best ultra-sincere smile. "I just think- well, it would be inhumane to turn Loki over to Asgard in this condition. He needs medical attention, and food, and- I don't know, therapy? I don't know how to even start treating brainwashing or sexual assault in a- a- whatever he is."

"War criminal," Fury finishes for him. "You had it right the first time." He sighs loudly, glaring one-eyed at Mike from across the table. "Okay, you can have him seen by a doctor. On one condition," Fury adds as Mike starts for the door.

"Sir?"

"You get someone to wash that sonofabitch, pronto. You reek just from standing in that cell with him."

"Of course, Director. We’ll clean him right up. Thank you."

Mindful of the ever-present surveillance cameras, Mike makes a mental note to save his fist-pump for later.

~

Before he even gets back to his own office, though, his good luck runs out; his phone buzzes.

"Sir, we need you down here right now. The prisoner is- he's losing it."

Privately Mike doesn't think Loki has much _it_ left to lose, but he absolutely doesn't want a scene - not with Fury in the building, S.H.I.E.L.D. cronies hovering somewhere entirely too nearby for comfort. "Just leave him be. I'm on my way."

~

Mike never ceases to be amazed at the speed with which things can go right in the shitter. Seriously, he's been upstairs for, what, ten minutes? But when he exits the second of the sets of locking double doors that separate the detention cells from the rest of the ward, he can already hear Loki screaming. _Stay calm, stay calm; you've got this,_ he reminds himself as he fights not to break into a run.

"Okay, what's going on here," he asks his guys over the noise. "On second thought," he corrects – holding up a hand - when he realizes he can't even hear himself think like this, "excuse me just a moment." He walks up to the door grille of Loki's cell, carefully not reacting to the mess – not to mention the nakedness - in front of him. "Loki, please quiet down," he hollers over the din. " I'm here. Give me a moment to get things sorted out. Thank you," he adds more normally as Loki's ear-splitting shrieks give way to whimpering.

"Okay!" Mike mutes the speaker and turns back to his guys, fake-cheerful. "Filll the boss in, boys. What happened?"

"The doctor called down and wanted the prisoner stripped and put in restraints, sir." Okay, that explains the mess (among other things), then. "We told him what we had to do, ahead of time, through the door grille and he seemed calm enough but when we got in there and actually started undressing him he- he went apeshit, sir. Beg pardon," the guard adds as one of his buddies snickers.

Mike glares at the offender. "You think this is funny?"

"No, sir," the guard replies, no longer laughing but still looking markedly less ashamed than he ought to.

"Good. You can stay and help me," Mike smiles. "Everyone else, if you weren’t injured" - he looks around; they all shake their heads - "get yourselves back to work."

They don't quite fall all over themselves in their rush to leave this time, but they don't exactly linger either.

"It's Greg, yes?"

"Yes, sir." The guard is looking much less happy now that his audience has deserted him. Good.

"Thank you for volunteering to help, Greg," Mike says mildly. "Look, why don't you grab some supplies - betadine, a couple of big buckets of warm water, some rags; anything else that looks useful - while I talk to our problem child here. And be quick about it, please," Mike instructs as Greg heads for the door.

~

"Loki, it’s okay. Calm down. I’m coming in," Mike tells the door grille, “so please keep your distance.” The prisoner is across the cell, in a ball, rocking... but it's better to set a routine and stick to it. Even when it's not needed. When you're in the detention business, structure is good. Prisoners need structure; they need to know what to expect, and what’s expected of them in return.

Mike lets himself in, wand in hand, and carefully re-secures the door. "Okay, Loki," he starts off, calm and businesslike, "here's my plan: You're a mess, and you're obviously not up to coping with visitors just yet." Mike pauses; Loki doesn't react at all. No surprise there. "One of my guys is going to help me get you cleaned up, and then we'll talk about the doctor, okay?" 

Nothing.

"Nod for yes, shake for no," he reminds gently.

There, that was the start of a nod. Okay, good, Loki is at least still in there somewhere.

"I was hoping the doctor could get in here first, help you with the pain and all, but it seems that's not going to work" - he surveys the floor, shredded clothing and twisted metal bits everywhere - "so you will need to be strong for us. Can you do that?"

A clear nod this time. Progress!

"And remember, hands to yourself. Don't try anything with my helper, either. Wait, hold on, I'll get it," he turns and yells to Greg - who is back with supplies and doing battle with the locking mechanism - through the door grille.

Speaking of Greg; to his credit the kid has grabbed enough stuff to wash a small army. And he looks- scared. Good. Greg won't be so quick to laugh at someone else's expense next time, Mike is certain.

The two of them get themselves situated, during which time Loki manages to stop rocking and just sits quietly. Mike doesn't even want to think about trying to convince him to lie flat yet - it's far too vulnerable a position; they run the risk of having their prisoner flip out again, and Mike doesn't want anyone getting hurt - so he improvises. "Let's do this top-down. Greg, your first assignment is hair: Clean, untangled as best you can without cutting." It puts the kid mostly behind Loki, too, which is the best place for him. "Loki, like I told you earlier, my friend Greg here and I - we're going to clean you up. We don't want to hurt you, really, but with the condition you're in some pain is inevitable, no?"

Loki shrugs. Fair enough.

"Please tilt your head back so Greg can start on that mop you're sporting without drowning you in the process. If you feel better keeping your eyes closed, go right ahead; that's fine." Mike's a little surprised, really, when Loki actually does as requested. "Perfect, thank you. More gloves, remember?" He tosses Greg a pair.

"Yes."

Hey, now they might be getting somewhere.

~

Even without shampoo in the mix, the water sluicing out of Loki's hair is disgustingly black with grime. Mike ignores the mess they're making - well, adding to; Loki actually made it - and starts very gently in on washing the prisoner's face. It's slow going - Loki is filthy, and jumpy, and has very little skin free of healing cuts, burns, or bruises - but a lot of patience and some careful wiping reveals a very pale face that is probably quite handsome with a little more flesh on it. "Open your mouth for me. Shh," Mike adds as Loki starts, eyes flying open, and knocks into Greg heavily. "I just want to take a quick look at your teeth. And then brush them, if your mouth is up to it. You have toothbrushes in Asgard?" He holds one up so the prisoner can see.

Loki shrugs, but he opens his mouth and lets Mike look - and poke - around without much fussing. He doesn't _get_ toothpaste, though, and is rather frantic about the foaming; it would almost be funny if they weren't sitting here in a pool of bloody, gritty water and their prisoner wasn't- well, wasn't quite so likely to snap their necks in return for one wrong move. "Shh, you're fine. Minty, no? Mm? Here, just spit it out on the floor. This whole place is going to need a good rinse" - more like a good fumigation, and then maybe a fire or a small explosion - "after this anyway."

It appears Greg is actually making reasonable headway with Loki's hair. It's taken several shampoo applications but the prisoner smells markedly less like wet livestock and looks considerably less feral. His face is nice and clean; the abrasions from the muzzle don't look infected and - while his mouth is a mess of cuts and small punctures - he has all his teeth and nothing seems to have been recently broken.

The back of Loki's neck is in rough shape; Mike saw that much earlier, when he was removing the muzzle. The front doesn't look too bad; just a single bite, inflamed but not oozing. Mike cleans it thoroughly, apologizing when Loki grunts and flinches, but opts not to ask how it came to be there to start with.

Loki is surprisingly good about letting them - Greg puts the wet hair up in a messy bun, to keep it out of the way and to free his own hands for other work, and Mike has to bite the inside of his own mouth _hard_ to keep from laughing - wash his shoulders, arms, and upper torso. His body is covered with welts, burns, and healing cuts, and several ribs have broken and healed badly; everything they do, regardless of the amount of care they take, has to hurt. Badly. But the prisoner toughs it out and gives no resistance.

Until Greg, who's still stuck on _back half_ duty, accidentally lets his rag dip a little low and touches a buttock. At least that's what Mike thinks happened - it all goes down so fast it's hard to tell. One second they're quietly scrubbing away - they've long since given up trying to make conversation, and the prisoner is drifting somewhere between a trance and a doze anyway - and the next there's a horrible screech, Greg is cowering against the wall, and Mike has a lapful of soaked, shaking Loki.

"Hey, shh, what just happened there?" Loki is _clinging_ to Mike for dear life, arms flung around his neck and face buried in his shoulder, but it feels _terrified_ and not _sexual_ so Mike opts to let it go. "Hey. Loki? Did we hurt you? Nod or shake," he reminds, half to fill the stunned silence. Over top of Loki, Greg's eyes are huge.

Finally, several long minutes of soggy not-quite-hugging later, Loki manages a small shake.

"Okay, then. Look, we need to get all of you clean somehow. Do you need to wash certain parts, like your rear end maybe, yourself? So we don't hurt you," Mike clarifies, in case the truth is too upsetting or embarrassing and Loki needs an out.

A shake.

"Will you let us keep washing you, then?"

Loki shrugs, wet shoulder smacking Mike in the ear. "You. Not him, only you."

Awesome. He's won the Alien Buttwash Lottery. Mike just smiles, though: As hard as this is for him, it has to suck a lot worse for Loki. "Sure thing," he tries, "but for that you're going to need to get off me. Do you want Greg to leave," he asks as Loki lets go of his neck and slides back onto the floor.

"Please."

"Greg, can you go get us some more water? And a squeegee, please. For the floor," he adds quickly as Loki cringes. "And some of those nice blankets, the ones over by Medical. You know, the ones in that big warmer."

"Water-squeegee-blankets,” Greg ticks off on his fingers. “You'll be okay here?" He hesitates by the door, dripping and dirt-smeared.

"Sure. I think Loki and I will be fine." He does. "Go on; go ahead. Seriously, we’ll be fine."

~

This time, once he gets the prisoner settled, Mike opts to talk. Because silence worked so well and all. He asks a few innocuous questions about Aesir bathing customs, just to break the tension. Once Loki is actually participating in conversation, using full sentences and the occasional gesture, Mike switches gears: "Greg won't hurt you. Not the- the way you fear. He's young and scared and a little cocky," _and surely you know how that is, prince_ , "but it's like I said - that kind of shit just doesn't fly here."

"Mm. It- it was not personal. Things just- I have no choice but to react. It happens before I have time to stop and think _Mike assures me Greg is principled and will not- assault me,_ as you put it, you see? It's actually quite awful."

It probably is. "What do they do for that in Asgard?" Mike washes Loki's scrawny butt slowly, with tons of water, a gloved hand on the lower back keeping contact, and far more soaking than scrubbing. He also does a lot of sloshing on each trip back from the bucket - washing the prisoner's genitals has all the makings of a class-A shitshow, he has to imagine, and the more pre-soaking he can sneak in the better.

"Do? Do for what?" Loki cranes his neck to get a better look at Mike's face.

"Um. You have - well, they're doctors here but I think you call them healers - to help with physical injuries. What do you do for- for mental injuries?"

"Owwww," Loki squawks as Mike hits a delicate spot.

"Sorry, kiddo. Your butt here is in rough shape. You're going to need the doctor's help with that for sure."

"No, no doctor. Your doctor wants to hurt me."

Huh? The doctor hasn't even been here yet.

Oh. Wait. "The chains? That's not to hurt you, that's to protect the doctor. Standard protocol."

"I'm rather nonstandard," Loki chimes in, drily. It's the first real sign of humor Mike's seen. He thinks he likes it.

"That you are." He lets himself laugh quietly. "Hey, if I agree to stay with you while he works, will you promise not to hurt the doctor? On purpose, I mean," he clarifies. "I understand that you can't help your reaction when something unexpectedly sets you off."

"Mm. I'll think about it."

Mike can't argue with that, he supposes. "So, Asgard? Mental injuries?"

Loki grins, but it's bitter; all teeth and no laughter. "I believe your man Anthony Stark would put it thus: _Suck up and deal._ "

Well. That's not helpful… and just a bit too literal right this second.

"Say, how about this - I wash your legs and you wash your- your junk? Your balls and stuff?" Hey, awesome change of topic. Very smooth. Mike can feel his face flush - because he's _five_ , y'know - and is more than a little relieved when the prisoner chooses that moment to look down at the parts in question. Loki dispassionately inspects his own limp penis, holding it between thumb and forefinger like some discarded bit of carrion; Mike feels abruptly sad.

"Okay." Loki gingerly extends a mud-streaked, bloody leg, then holds his free hand out for a rag.


	3. Present, Future, Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mike and Bruce talk, Loki dreams.

The rest of the cleanup is refreshingly uneventful, although Mike is pretty sure this uniform is unsalvageable and will be going straight into the incinerator. In talking further with the prisoner, too, he learns Loki isn't standing unassisted because he's too weak just now to do so without the whole process involving lots of wobbling... and wobbling, it seems, is excruciating. From the sound of it Loki may have a couple of pelvic fractures, which would both explain and not explain a lot, but Mike can't even fathom how his guys might get their easily-unhinged prisoner into some sort of imaging machine without anyone blowing a gasket. And all that's assuming Aesir/Jotnar tissues are even similar enough to human to image safely. Really, the best option would be to give Loki a night alone with his own magic but- yeah, Mike did hear Director Fury. That’s not gonna happen.

Greg appears at the door, arms full of towels and blankets, a pole squeegee caught in the crook of one elbow and flopping about dangerously. He didn't have enough hands for water, as it turns out; he and Mike opt to make do with a cold refill from the wall spigot in the hall outside Loki's cell.

"I apologize for this, I really do," Mike tells the prisoner as he holds Loki upright and Greg douses them both with cold water, making Loki squeal (and Greg want to, only he’s trying to set a good example), "but we really did need to rinse you off somehow. Shh, I know," he soothes as the whimpering prisoner shivers. "That was awful, wasn’t it? Here, this next part will be better - let's see if we can't make it up to you."

With Greg's help Mike shuffles Loki – slowly, painfully, with quite a big of what pretty much amounts to carrying - over to the wall-mounted concrete bench that serves as both the cell's seat and its cot. Greg spreads a couple of blankets over top of the bench, each folded over a few times to provide at least a little padding, while Mike struggles to simultaneously steady and towel-dry the slippery prisoner. They sit Loki down carefully and let him find the most comfortable position, then finish toweling him off as best they can.

That done, Mike steps back – wiping his sweating face; he’s not cold anymore, not after all that lugging about - and gives the prisoner a good visual inspection. Loki somehow manages to look at once better and worse - he's all pink and clean now, true, but the full extent of his injuries is also far more readily apparent; the damage, the bruising especially, stands out in much greater contrast against clean skin. That, and their prisoner is so worn out from the whole talking-and-scrubbing ordeal that staying awake is clearly becoming a losing proposition.

"Tell you what, Loki,” Mike suggests, “Let's get you bundled up and then you can nap for a while. But after that, doctor and then food. Deal?"

Loki would probably agree to anything right this second, if only to get them to shut up and leave, but Mike opts to pretend the nod actually means something.

He and Greg help their prisoner lie down, then wrap Loki snugly in heated blankets - the ones in the center of the mound haven't lost their cozy warmth yet. Afterwards, Mike fashions him a makeshift pillow out of leftover towels.

Loki is asleep before they can even say their goodbyes.

Greg and Mike stand there watching him for a bit, from just outside the cell door where they don’t risk waking him. In sleep Loki's forehead is creased with something like worry; he mutters in his sleep and jerks frequently, occasionally crying out in what seems to be pain. It's unsettling – flat-out disturbing, even - and they don't stay long.

"I'm sorry about- about before, sir," Greg says as they turn to leave.

Mike flashes him a quick grin. "Oh yes, I'll bet you are. Run along now… hit the showers, and then get back to whatever it is you were supposed to be doing."

"You won't need help later?"

"Sure, I might – so go warn your coworkers to be on their best behavior." Mike chuckles and heads for his office - he has a small private shower there, and he is literally itching to get out of these wet, stinky, disgustingly-dirty things.

~

He's barely had time to dry himself off and pull on a clean uniform - he's still toweling his messy, damp hair - when there's a soft knock at the door. "Dr. Banner," Mike exclaims as he opens up. "I- I'm sorry - had to do a little emergency decon just now. Really dirty prisoner?" he adds, smiling a little sheepishly, when the man standing in his doorway just looks puzzled. "Please," - Mike steps out of the way, remembering his manners and gesturing towards the conference table - "come in. Have a seat."

"Thank you." The doctor takes the nearest chair; up close, Mike is always surprised to see just how small and gentle-natured Banner is. Well, in this form, anyway. 

"Director Fury,” Banner continues once Mike sits down, “said you needed to talk to me post haste about a prisoner."

Mike nods. "And did he tell you anything about which prisoner, or why?"

Banner smiles. That is, his mouth smiles; his eyes still manage to look deeply troubled. "No, of course not. But news travels faster than the speed of light in this place. I know you're holding Thor's brother here, and that no one has told Thor... so, educated guess? It's about that somehow."

They do say this man is quite smart, after all. Mike nods again. "Dr. Banner, I-."

"Bruce. Just Bruce is fine," Banner corrects, still gently.

"Bruce it is then. Mike here." He half-stands and holds his hand out. They do an awkward little handshake; Mike feels... ridiculous. "Um. So, _Bruce_... yes, Fury's guys brought Loki in early this morning. I s'pose it was late last night, if you want to get technical about it. We – by which I mean my guys and I; I’m sure the S.H.I.E.L.D. people are an entirely different story - don't know exactly what happened but, from what I can gather, it seems he was taken from Thor after the two of them left New York."

Bruce nods. "Yes, he was. By Thanos, we think. Thor was quite upset about it."

"Ah. So." Mike takes a deep breath. "I don't quite know how he ended up here in my detention unit, but we're supposed to surrender him up to Asgard. And I plan to, I do," he reassures in case Bruce is starting to think they're _up to no good,_ the big sort of no good that really gets a guy in trouble. "But someone or something - a bunch of someones or somethings, from the sound - has messed him up pretty badly. Infected cuts, bad bone breaks, starvation, dehydration, you name it."

Bruce's face screws up like he's just smelled something rancid. "Torture, in other words."

"Yep. And some pretty strong operant conditioning to go along with it." Mike clears his throat. "Seems like a lot of it was sexual. When he first got here he was trying to, um, blow anyone who got too close."

"Loki. _Loki_ was trying to blow your guards." Bruce whistles, shaking his head slowly from side to side. "That's- you'll have to forgive me, but I've dealt with the guy pretty extensively before and it’s- well, it's a little hard to picture, that's all."

Mike nods. "I’m getting that message – it’s pretty much the same thing everyone's been saying. He's really fucked-up, Bruce. It's ugly. Even given his- his poor track record."

"Sounds that way, I’m sorry to say.” Bruce sighs. ‘And what did you need from me?"

Mike shrugs. It's complicated. "He needs medical care - he has an infected-looking bite, some bedsores along his spine, some" - he tries to breeze past it, to sound smooth and professional, but he just _knows_ he's wincing - "tearing around the anus, and a number of as-yet-unhealed fractures. And that's just the big stuff. We can't give him the opportunity to heal himself without risking an international security incident, so he needs a doctor."

"And it's above your guy's pay grade?" Bruce’s mouth quirks.

Mike snorts. "Well, our guy is hardly an expert at treating alien rape survivors, criminal or no. But, no - he wanted Loki restrained and that... my guys gave it a try but let’s just say it didn't go well."

"Mm, I can imagine. He knows me, though, Mike... we have a history, you might say. I doubt he will be pleased to see me. And, yes, that’s a bit of an understatement."

"Oh, right, no. I was just hoping you could recommend someone. Someone with the proper experience."

~

_It's dark, not pitch black but still far too dark to make out anything more than vague shape or movement. He can't hear anything over the sound of his own harsh breathing, either, but he knows the thing is still in here with him. He can smell it, even over the stink of shit and sex and blood that hangs heavy and constant in the close air of the dank little cell._

_It comes as no surprise, therefore, when – perhaps a few minutes later, maybe not even that long; he’s lost all sense of time here - something slimy touches his face. He tries to turn away, as far as he can before the sharp edge of the collar cuts into his jaw, but it's not nearly enough._

_"You think I'm done with you, Aesir scum? Think I'm ready to lock you back up in your cage? Oh no no, we're just getting started." It laughs, sharp and cruel. "My master had something else to see to - you're all mine." He hears the slap of leather against its scaly palm. "Hmm. Fuck first, and then a good beating? Or the other way around? What do you think?"_

_It's not really asking. There's no point in trying to answer._

_He's learned that and much more in his time here._

_"A beating then," it decides._

_A beating, he can take. For a while. He is a warrior, after all. He embraces the pain, the white-hot burn of the lash on his mutilated back and hips and ribs, clinging to it with all he has as proof he's still alive._

_He hasn't much stamina left anymore, though - he hangs limp in the chains even as the first trickles of blood start to run. Still, he stays as quiet as possible - a grunt here, a muffled gasp there. He's learned to make a game of sorts of this; it helps him maintain some vague illusion of control, even in this horrific place where all real control has been long since stripped away. He doesn't remember why a sense of control is important to him anymore; just that it is. And so he viciously bites the inside of his own mouth, tasting hot blood, rather than giving the creature his anguished cries._

_It's not until the thing bends him forward, near-choking him against the collar, that he starts to really lose everything._

_And it's not until it rams savagely into him, reopening the damage its master visited upon his ruined ass last time, that he screams._

_The thing laughs again and pats his back, its harsh rhythm never faltering. "Now be a good boy and tell me how much you love this, how badly you want it. Tell me everything you need, and exactly how you want me to give it to you. Don’t be shy, either; I want to hear every single slutty thought. Convince me. Remember: If I don't completely believe you, you'll be getting the needle... and then who knows sort of humiliation you'll ask for? This here may be the best thing you get all night._

_Gods, he won't beg for this. He won’t. He can’t. Even as he thinks that, though, he can feel his own willpower starting to give way. Before he disappears completely, he screams a last "NO!!" as loud as he can-_

-and manages to jar himself half-awake into a dazed, blurry mental fog.

Loki quiets at once, not sure if the scream was even real, and lies listening to his own heart pound. He's not _there_ anymore, for certain; this place is too bright, stinging his eyes even behind tightly-shut lids. It's too soft, too, luxuriously so by comparison. And the smell is all wrong - clean, sharp with chemicals. No filth, no semen. None of his own rank body odor; only the smallest hints of fear and of blood.

Clean. _Oh._ Right. The Midgard prison. The officer who is being decent for no purpose Loki can discern. The scared rabbit of a young guard who helped clean him up; the others who ran from him in consternation when he found himself compelled to- to give them what all jailers want.

So this- this is real, then? Not another dream? Not the potions?

Not Thanos, then.

_Oh, gods._

He sternly reminds himself that brave warriors don't cry. If a few tears leak past his lashes anyway, it's just all that bright light.

The light and the very real pain.


	4. Weakness is Strength; Strength is Weakness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Patching Loki up turns out to be a little challenging.

"But he's okay now? You're sure? Yeah, I'll be right down. Sorry about that," Mike says to Bruce as he shoves his phone back in his pocket. "Sounds like Loki had a bad dream and screamed himself, and probably the guy tasked with monitoring that cell block," - he smiles at Bruce, trying to look less concerned than he feels - "awake. No harm done, though," _at least of the sort we can see,_ he doesn't add. 

He stands, chair grating across the cement. "Look, I don't mean to give you the boot, but I need to get back downstairs. You'll brief this doctor - Franker, right? - and then have him call me, yes?"

Bruce nods, getting to his feet as well. "I'll fill Dr. Franker in as thoroughly as I can. He should be in touch within the hour."

"Oh, I'm sure" - Mike laughs for real this time - "our patient would tell him not to hurry. And thank you... I know this whole thing can't be easy for you."

"I'm not okay with what Loki has done," - Bruce looks tired; this is draining, for all of them - "but from what you're saying he's gotten... well, not more punishment than he deserves, exactly; more like punishment no one deserves. And I'm not okay with that, either."

~

Okay, things could be worse. Could be better, but could be worse.

Loki is still curled up in his blankets, but his eyes are wide and frightened in his pale, battered face. Mike activates the speaker. "Hey there." Loki jumps, then winces. "Sorry, sorry. Didn't mean to startle you. Mike here," he supplies - rather unnecessarily, since Loki is looking right at him. "Do you want me to come in?"

He's kind of expecting a _no_ \- Loki seems pretty private when lucid and (understandably, at this point) not very trusting - but, no, that was definitely a nod.

The cell smells so much better; much as he hates to, he has to admit Director Fury had a good point there.

"No, shh, stay put," Mike admonishes lightly as Loki struggles to sit up. "I'll just sit here." He finds a dry spot in front of the bench and sits cross-legged on the floor. "I didn't grab a wand - don't make me regret it, okay?"

"I will try not to."

Good, at least they’re starting at talking this time.

"So, the guy monitoring these cells tells me you screamed. What happened? Do you need something?"

Loki frowns. "I had a dream. It was nothing. I'm fine."

"You're shaking." His prisoner is, visibly. "That doesn't seem like _fine_."

"It was a little upsetting. Nothing with which you need concern yourself. Your man should not have bothered you." He's still shaking, almost to the point where his teeth should be chattering.

Mike shrugs. "Standard protocol. It's what I'm here for." Which is largely true - he takes every escalation seriously and wants his guards to feel free to involve him any time they have even the very, very smallest of doubts. It's much smarter, he thinks, than risking one of them getting in shit up to the eyeballs because The Boss Will Yell. "Want to talk about it?"

"No."

"They tell me it's normal, when you've been through something traumatic, to have flashbacks and upsetting dreams," Mike puts out there, just in case Loki has questions he's not comfortable asking.

"I wasn't aware _no_ had a different meaning here on Midgard," Loki grumbles. He doesn't really look angry, though.

"It doesn't." Mike smiles. "You're free to not talk about it as much as you'd like."

"Mm." Loki burrows into his towel-pillow.

"How are you feeling? Physically," Mike adds quickly. "You look pretty rough."

"Pretty rough," Loki tells the pillow.

"Have you ever been given Midgard medications? I'm just wondering if they work for you; if they help," Mike clarifies as Loki stiffens.

Huh. "Did your captors give you drugs?"

Half a shrug. Loki's expression is completely blank, though - shut off.

"Well, either way, I only meant stuff to help you with the pain. And to heal anything that's infected. Nothing else. Really." Mike almost holds up his hand and adds _Scout's honor,_ but of course that lame joke would mean nothing to this one... this being who looks so human, but is actually anything but.

"In that case, no. But I have drunk Midgard ale and it seems much like what we have in Asgard. Well, except Asgard's drinks are stronger. And bigger."

That sounds promising, actually. He's about to say so, but-

"I was back in their possession," Loki says, out of nowhere. "In the dream. I cannot speak to you about that; you know this from our talks before."

He does. "I just want to help where I can."

After at least three beats too, long: "Why?" Loki’s expression is still completely closed-off.

"Why do I want to help? Because I'm nice?" Mike grins. Yeah, no response there. "Okay, you want the serious answer. I don't for a minute condone what you did here on earth- on Midgard, in New York, but this? What they did to you? Not okay. Not okay at all."

"It was a risk I accepted."

Interesting. "It's still not okay, not in my book."

"Mortals are so sentimental," Loki scoffs, and for a scary instant he actually looks like someone who could lead a devastating invasion. "Sentiment. Nicety. Kindness. It's what makes you weak."

Mike shrugs. He feels like he's been shrugging a lot recently. "Actually, I think kindness is what makes us strong."

~

When Dr. Franker contacts him Mike opts to take the call, on speaker, right here in Loki's cell. He'd rather be open and forthcoming - this way, their prisoner knows no behind-the-back plotting is going on. Plus, if Loki is going to react badly to something at its most basic conceptual level, Mike would prefer to find it out now... without other human targets to protect.

They go through the basics - Mike warns the doctor they're on speaker and asks Loki to please try not to chime in, they compare notes, they talk about what's been done so far (basically, just lots of washing with a little disinfecting thrown in) - first. It's got to be done anyway, and Mike wants Loki to get a good idea how bland and routine and _just plain boring_ the whole business is.

Things get a little dicey once Mike starts cataloging injuries - he keeps having to shush Loki and remind him that this is just so Dr. Franker can bring the right treatments (he carefully doesn't say _equipment_ , even though there will doubtless be some) along - but they do ultimately manage to navigate the minefield without casualties.

"Half an hour it is. We'll be ready for you." Mike cocks an eyebrow at Loki, daring him to object; Loki, face sullen, hooks a blanket with one finger and pulls it up over his head. Okay, if that’s the worst of it, Mike’ll take it.

~

Of course, when Dr. Franker actually arrives, things don't go nearly as smoothly. He shows up with all his _equipment_ packed neatly away in a gear bag, but he's rolling an IV pole too and Loki... well, he freaks out a little. No one really gets hurt but - by the time the dust settles – they’re both on the floor. Mike has a nice scrape on the side of his face and several of Loki's existing wounds are once again bleeding.

But – by far - the most surprising thing? When they finish their little wrestling match and have retreated to their respective corners, panting and sweaty (and, in Loki's case, hissing like a cornered cat) Dr. Franker is still waiting patient and unflustered outside the door. As he drags himself to his feet, Mike can't help but think he and this doctor are going to get along nicely.

"Sorry about that," Mike says to the door grille. He feels like he's been doing _that_ a lot recently too. "I'm Mike, doctor, and this" - he gestures - "is Loki. Why don't you come on in and join us; I'll release the lock, you hand me a wand from the rack on the wall- hush, Loki! I can't have someone in here with me without one, standard policy," he snaps, voice quite a bit sharper than he really means it to be. "Anyway, hand me one and then come in. Stay behind me, and keep all your stuff back there with you, until you and Loki have a chance to get acquainted. Okay?"

He takes the wand and stands about a quarter of the way into the cell, facing his agitated prisoner. "I'm not going to let him hurt you any more than absolutely necessary. You have my word. This isn't a trick, Loki. He's just here to assess your injuries and to fix what he can. Afterwards, if you _want_ pain medicine, we can talk about that. Please behave, okay?"

He can't believe he's telling an alien god to behave. Then again, if someone had done a little more of that over Loki's lifetime, they might not all be here like this today.

His prisoner is a little too mentally gone just now to nod. Mike opts to start with the introductions anyway. "Loki, this is Dr. Franker. He has worked with a lot of- of _mortal_ torture survivors" - he very intentionally doesn't say _victims_ \- "and prisoners. The things he brought with him are the tools our doctors use to treat injuries. We'll explain them to you as we go." Mike looks at the doctor, who dips his head in agreement. "First, though, I need you back up on the bench. And a little calmer."

He takes a couple of steps towards Loki, who skitters away backwards like a big, naked crab. Oh, boy. Mike gives up and squats, fighting like mad not to roll his eyes. His face hurts. He's exhausted. This whole _one step forward, five steps back_ routine is killing him. "Shh, Loki. I'm not going hurt you either," he reassures his wild-eyed prisoner. They stare each other down a minute or so. Mike reaches out - slowly, slowly - and touches a bloody ankle. He should have put gloves on... oh well. Hopefully he can't catch anything Aesir/Jotun anyway. "See?" He keeps his touch light. "We just want to help you."

Finally, a nod.

Mike - without taking his eyes off the prisoner - gestures for the doctor to approach. Dr. Franker squats next to him without being asked. Good, good. At least the doctor and Loki don’t both need babysitting..

"Hi. Since everyone else is skipping the titles here, you can just call me Evon." Mike glances over at him; Evon isn't smiling, exactly, but he radiates good-natured calm.

Mike owes Bruce dinner. _And_ drinks, except he thinks he's heard Bruce... doesn't. Eh, if he turned into what Tony likes to call a _big green rage monster,_ Mike might just swear off the sauce himself. So, two dinners, then.

"When you think you're ready,” Evon continues, “Mike and I can help you back up on the bench. Or I can take a look at things here on the floor; it just seems uncomfortable for you, you know?"

Mike keeps his fingers on Loki's ankle, just in case. He figures his prisoner can kick them off if they're unwelcome.

~

_Breathe,_ Loki orders himself. _You are being utterly ridiculous._ They've asked him a question, a simple stupid trivial question. All he has to do is nod or shake. Such an easy thing.

Except he can't even breathe. He can’t fucking breathe. He’s going to die right here because he cannot fucking breathe. He’s forgotten how.

He lies in a heap on the cold, damp floor – yes, the healer, Evon? Evon is right; this is not at all comfortable - and fights to ground himself. The gentle touch just above his foot helps... not hurting, not squeezing, not stroking; just there, giving him a point on which to focus.

_Focus. Breathe._

When he does the former, the latter happens automatically after all. He tries it for a while, just lying there concentrating on the warmth of Mike's hand, until the roaring in his head dies down and he can almost function.

"Mm," he says. He started out meaning that to be a word but didn't quite manage it somehow.

Mike _gets_ it anyway: "Ready, Loki?"

He nods, face scraping painfully against the floor. Pain. Pain is grounding too.

"Would you rather be on the bench?" That's Evon. But Loki can still feel Mike's hand, so it's okay. He nods again. Tries to push himself to sitting but his body just won't do it.

"We've got it. You don't need to help just now." Evon again, matter-of-fact. Not mean, not coddling. It's easy. Easy to just hang there limp while they pick him up and set him back on the blankets. "Stay there, Mike," Evon directs, and Loki feels the wonderful, perfect hand on his ankle again.

Evon covers him up, blanket up to the armpits and arms left free. Clinical, practical. Calm.

Calming.

Calming enough that Loki finds he's able to pay attention this time as Evon talks: "I know it's probably hard for you, and I can work around it either way, but it will help you and me both if you speak whenever you're able. I have my stuff I need to do, sure, but I also want to give you as much flexibility as I can, and as much as you can handle. Okay?"

That's simple enough. Even he can do it. "Yes. Thank you," Loki adds, for all the little things that are helping. Evon, he thinks, will probably understand; Mike certainly will.

Sure enough, the tiniest squeeze on the ankle.

"I'm going to offer this to you,” Evon tells him, “because I want the choice to be yours, but I'm also going to tell you straight-up that I fully expect you will decline. If you want to sleep through all of this, with no recollection of it whatsoever, I can-."

“ _NO!_ ” Loki barks before Evon can even finish the question. "Don't you dare. I’ll- I’ll-…" He's all geared up to fight, so geared up he can’t even get the threat out, but Evon's response is still calm. Mild.

"Sure, that's fine. If you change your mind at any point, just let us know. Now, there are a few places I will absolutely have to use a numbing agent. I will warn you first, and give you time to prepare, but I will have to use it regardless. That's because bodies have minds of their own sometimes. Anywhere it’s optional, though, I will ask and let you decide."

Loki has a snarky response all ready for when Evon says "Okay," but Evon doesn't. Instead, he very gently touches Loki's chin. "I'm going to start here with this bite. It's going to hurt, probably worse than it did when you were bitten originally. Want it numbed?"

"No."

This time Evon does say "Okay," but it's not a question and there's really no call for being an ass. Loki just lies there quietly and lets the healer position his head.

Then: Oh, it _does_ hurt, pressure and dull pain and a horrible sharp burning like he's being drenched in acid.

After that the incision - Evon shows him the scalpel; it's a neat little blade, for Midgardian work - is a cakewalk, except that the smell makes him retch. Which hurts worse than the rest put together, at least in part because: When did Loki of Asgard become such a delicate flower? The packing - Evon shows him that first, too, and the drain - isn't pleasant, but the healer daubs Loki's upper lip with something sharply minty and astringent and together they manage to get the job done.

Right up until Evon shows him a syringe.


	5. Doctoring and more Doctoring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Short one here.... Sorry. Real Life and all that.
> 
> Loki revisits some decidedly-less-than-fond memories.
> 
> **WARNING: Flashbacks involving non-con and dub-con sexual trauma**

_It's the same every time, no matter how hard he tries to fight it._

_He refuses to beg, refuses to grovel, refuses to crawl. Makes them take from him - of him - whatever use of his body they insist upon having, rather than giving himself over willingly. Doesn't cooperate, even if (when) it means far more pain in the end, because all he has left in all the Nine is his dignity._

_And terribly little of that, anymore. Terribly little._

_And they play along, for a while. Sometimes they even play along for nearly the entire session; some of them could be said to like it best when he fights back, although he tries his best not to let himself pursue that particular line of reasoning too intently._

_But inevitably their patience fails to outlast their collective libido (which is astounding, and who knows, Loki thinks to himself in those increasingly rare moments where he is both alone and rational - maybe his captors, the ones who come to his cage and deliver his torment, are employing a potion of some sort as well) and when their patience wears thin, the needle comes out._

_The stuff goes in wherever they can most readily access a vein: a wrist or ankle, near the shackle, if they've worn most of the fight out of him; his neck, at the heavy collar, if they haven't._

_They're never careful with it. It always hurts, always bleeds. But that's nothing._

_No, the worst comes after the pain, after the blood… and makes of the pain and bleeding a tiny, meaningless thing._

_Every time some part of his mind is unaffected, which is really the most scorchingly awful aspect of the whole experience because it means he's aware. It means he remembers. It means that part of him stands aside observing, screaming in silent, powerless horror, as the rest of him - body and remainder of mind driven completely mad by lust, by need so strong and so insatiable that he would die trying to slake it... if only they would let him - begs tearfully to be used in every conceivable way._

_And then in a number of inconceivable ones._

_After the needle there is literally nothing that’s beneath him. Nothing he will not beg to do, no way in which he will not prostrate, open, or expose himself before them. He will crawl endlessly over their disgusting bodies - unable to get enough, to give enough - slobbering and grinding, painfully hard, sweaty and dripping and out of his head._

_Until he cannot even crawl._

_And then they take their pleasure a last time or two (or five, or twenty) and - laughing - leave him hanging in his chains to come back slowly, horribly into himself._

_Sometimes he hangs there for hours, crying and shaking uncontrollably, unable even to wipe his face clean of their vile spend._

_Even worse than the feeling of it drying on his skin is the smell. The smell, which stays with him forever._

_Until they come for him again, and it all starts over._

_Like it's starting over right now, when they're showing him the needle and telling him to-_

"-calm down, please. Loki! You're going to hurt yourself!"

Wha-?

He blinks, then blinks again. It's bright, far too bright, in one eye; the view from the other is dim and fuzzy. There's a dull, painful pressure between his shoulder blades and his arms are pinned behind him. He struggles but it's not working; he can’t possibly get loose, although that doesn’t stop him from flailing with all his sadly-diminished might. If he can’t win, he will die trying.

"Loki! Can you hear me? Lie still and I'll let go of you."

Wait, he knows that voice. That voice is a good voice. That voice belongs to someone who- who cares.

He's not with _them_. This is Midgard. This is Mike.

Loki lets himself goes completely limp. As promised, both the vice-grip on his wrists and the pressure on his back stop immediately.

"Good. Easy, easy. You know where you are?"

He needs to nod.

It nets him a faceful of rumpled towels. Oh. Bench. He's face-down on the bench. No wonder he can't half see.

"Mm," he forces out. _Gods._

"Listen, sorry about that," - Mike again, from right beside him now. "You, um, went a little crazy on us just then. I had to pin you down."

"Mm."

"Just a guess here, but I'm betting you can't tell us what that was about."

He can't shake his head lying like this, so he tries "mm-nn" instead.

"Yeah, didn't think so. Evon, you okay?"

"Yep, but I think that syringe is a goner." Evon is across the cell again, from the sound of it. He doesn’t sound upset, though, or pained. Despite everything – Loki has little idea how, or why – the healer still sounds calm and reassuring.

_Focus. Breathe._ Loki tries to identify and concentrate on a single thing - anything - to help him get back under control... but people are talking and moving and nothing is constant and it's too much and he can’t breathe and he’s drowning in it and then someone is shrieking and he wishes it would stop because it's too close and too loud and it's hurting his ears and-

~

Shit. "Loki," Mike tries over the din, "please stop that. You're okay. Really." At least his prisoner is staying put this time; as weak and beat up as Loki may be, he still puts up a darned good fight. The guy must be incredibly powerful at full strength, even without adding magic to the equation.

"Please stop with the howling, Loki." Incredibly powerful, and incredibly loud. Not to mention rather hard to get through to.

"He was much calmer," Evon points out, just as Mike’s brain is treatening to melt from the noise and drip out his poor ears, "with your hand on his ankle."

It's a good point. At this juncture, too, Mike is willing to try almost anything. He scoots down far enough to reach, roots around in the tangled blankets, and carefully closes his fingers around his prisoner’s bony ankle.

And sure enough, it does help. Loki goes limp and boneless in the bedding and - and for this, Mike wants to get down and kiss the damp, disgusting floor - stops with the noise. Completely. For a couple of minutes everyone is quiet, each just catching his breath, and then Evon comes quietly back over and crouches up by Loki's head.

"Hey, Loki, I know - I didn't, but I do now - you're having problems with syringes. And you seem extraordinarily pain-tolerant, so I'm willing to skip any injected numbing agent if you are... as long as you can make yourself keep still. But..." - Evon pauses; Loki tenses, Mike braces himself- "the antibiotic is really, really important. That's even more true if we're skipping numbing, because I'm going to have that much more trouble properly cleaning some of the worst of it." Evon reaches out very slowly and, without touching Loki's cheek, moves some hair out of the way. "Look at me, please. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Loki nods.

"Good. Repeat the important part for me."

"You want to give me the- the antibiotic, you said," Loki rasps.

"Yes, exactly." Evon nods. Mike lets out the breath he hadn't meant to hold to begin with. "Now let's break the problem down a little and see if we can't find ourselves a workable solution."

The doctor is actually able to puzzle out, without any real harm coming to anyone, the worst bits - Loki is terrified of having anything injected directly into his veins, anywhere and everywhere on his body, and he doesn't trust the liquid itself. Without getting into the Things Loki Cannot Discuss, they are able to put together the rough basics - he trusts the two of them, for a given value of _trust_ , but he's incredibly afraid of what the effect of the liquid might be.

Which is how Mike finds himself - "You do have a nasty scrape on the side of your face now," Evon points out just a hair too cheerfully - letting go of Loki and yanking up his own shirt sleeve. "See, it doesn't go in a vein - just right here in the muscle," the doctor explains to their wide-eyed prisoner as he jabs the needle into Mike's delt. "And it won't do anything Mike notices, beyond burning a little."

"Ow," Mike complains. When no one gives him the time of day, he pouts. That doesn't work either. He sighs, rolls his eyes to no one, and asks "So what do I need to do to- to demonstrate, I guess, that it's not affecting me somehow?" He's not sure who he's asking, really.

Evon defers the question - "Loki?" - but their prisoner is already answering: "You've already demonstrated," he talks over the doctor. "It’s not doing what- what I feared.” He eyes Evon. “Can I give it to myself?" His voice is still hoarse from screaming, but he looks much more rational than he did a few minutes ago. Which is fortunate, considering what-.

"Can you inject yourself? Well, let’s check with the boss." Evon turns to Mike. "Is it okay if I give Loki a sharp?"

Considering _this._ This precisely. It's completely against protocol but, then again, they don't really have a protocol that deals with alien gods anyway. Right now, given the various choices, this is by far the lesser of evils. Mike sighs yet again. "Oh, sure." Why not? This whole thing is so incredibly fucked-up, it can’t really get any worse.

He really, really, really hopes.

After some detailed, highly-technical anatomy-and-physiology-esque discussion around injection placement and technique, during which the prisoner comes across as impressively educated and Mike feels even more stupid than he normally does around doctors, Loki cooperates: He takes the syringe carefully from Evon, all seriousness and concentration, then twists around and injects himself in the thigh.

Afterwards Mike's still a little - okay, that's totally a lie; a lot - relieved to see the whole contraption deposited safely back into Evon's waiting palm.

"Feeling okay," Evon asks after a minute or so; both Mike and Loki say "yes," in stereo. And then they all _laugh_ about it, which is such a relief - such a tension release - that Mike thinks he might just end up being the one crying for a change.

Somewhere different – some _when_ different – they could all be friends, sharing stories about this over a beer or ten.

The next bit isn't quite so pleasant. Evon explains at some length what major projects lie ahead - the whole ass problem, as Mike's been calling it inside his own head, and the pressure ulcers - and discusses (in excruciating, in every sense of the word, detail) exactly how he plans to proceed. It's going to be especially difficult, the doctor points out, because it's all behind Loki's back where their prisoner can't see. That, and some of it will really, really, _really_ hurt... but even so Evon is clearly of the opinion trust will pose a bigger challenge for Loki than will pain.

And Mike? Well, given everything he’s seen in the past couple of days, he has to agree.

~

“There’s only so much time I can give Mike and his team with this, Bruce, no matter how I feel about it personally. And to top it off I don’t feel very good about it personally. This asshole called us ants and himself the boot, for God’s sake, and not all that long ago. Not nearly long enough ago. And then he chewed half of New York to bits. I don’t like him, not at all, and I don’t trust him.”

Bruce sips his tea. “I don’t like him either, Nick. But Mike? Mike is solid. He runs a good establishment. He’s never led us wrong before. I think we should take him at his word.”

Fury stretches back in his chair. “He’s never dealt with anything like this before. It’s not him I’m questioning, Bruce, it’s not. It’s his… his prisoner. Whatever you want to call it. Loki is a slippery snake. He’ll kill us all if he gets half a chance, mark my words.”

He can’t even say that’s not true. It probably is. And yet “from what Mike says, Loki’s not really in much condition to kill anyone. Let it play out. We’ll all feel a lot better when he’s out of here, I know, but if Mike says he’s in no shape to go back to Asgard… I believe him. Loki’s in no shape to go back to Asgard.”

“And what, pray tell, do we say to Thor? When, you know, our very own personal god of thunder comes sniffing back around wanting to know why human doctors treated his precious missing cargo and no one thought to breathe a word to him about it? Because you know that will just please him to no end.”

That’s a sticky issue. Very, very sticky. “Um, we’ll think of something?” He shrugs.

Fury grimaces. “Oh, perfect. Thank you. _That_ makes me feel _so_ much better. I can’t begin to tell you how much better,” he continues, oozing sarcasm. “Seriously, Bruce.”

He makes himself smile. “No, I _will_ think of something. I mean it.”

So much is riding on this. He _has_ to.


	6. Here in the Aftermath...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Really short one. It was just one of those busy days. Better than nothing, I hope.
> 
> Mike hadn't really thought about what comes next.

In the end, absolutely no pun intended, resolving the whole Ass Problem situation goes a whole lot better than Mike had been expecting. He's relegated early on to comfort detail, up at Loki's head, and - especially after a rather lengthy, graphic _show and tell_ involving retractors and anoscopes and forceps and irrigation and sutures - he honestly can't say he's sorry. He opts to encircle Loki's wrist with his fingers; holding his prisoner's hand under these circumstances seems like completely the wrong sort of _personal_ , especially when Evon is going to be rooting around up Loki's butt, and he doesn't want either of them any more uncomfortable than really necessary.

Loki, for his part in the whole thing, is a fucking trooper. He gamely tolerates things that hurt Mike just to hear about, every now and then hissing or pulling a sharp indrawn breath through clenched, bared teeth, and manages to stay present and cooperative the whole time.

From what Mike can see of the instruments, and the growing pile of used gauze pads, there isn't as much blood as he really expected either. So, overall; it definitely could be going a whole lot worse.

It isn’t, though, and it doesn’t. Evon repairs several internal tears, keeping up a running commentary so nothing comes as a surprise to his patient, and then takes care of – as he puts it; Mike sees it rather differently and would not be surprised if Loki does as well – the easy stuff around the outside. It doesn’t take as long as Mike had figured it would, either; it’s not even an hour before Evon is putting things away and wiping up after himself.

Ultimately, and it’s something Mike totally _didn’t_ see coming, the most difficult part of the whole process turns out to be the conversation at the end. Evon is droning on, giving a matter-of-fact post-operative care lecture - "-now, I'm not making any assumptions or judgments about how you do or don't roll, but it's extremely important that nothing goes in your anus for the next ten to fourteen days. Nothing. While there wasn't any damage I couldn't repair, you took a whole lot of sutures and your tissues need plenty of time to heal properly. So, _nothing_ , got it? Nothing whatsoever." - when Loki breaks out a hard-edged, bitter laugh Mike hasn't heard before.

"You needn't worry there, _doctor_ ," their prisoner replies, sarcastic and hostile and more than a little derisive-sounding. "As I can only assume you will eventually be releasing me into the Allfather's custody – oh, please, don't look so shocked; I'm really not stupid and you don't seem, either of you, the sort to risk bringing open war to your realm - I can assure you that fraternization is not in my future. If I somehow manage to live out your ten-to-fourteen-day sentence, you can be completely confident that no part of me - least of all my _anus_ \- will be receiving any companionable attention whatsoever."

It takes a moment for what Loki's just said to hit Evon - "Well, even allowing for the differences in physiology,” the doctor qualifies, “that antibiotic you took should preclude any such dire-..." - and a couple more for it to hit Mike (who spends every last bit of those moments wondering why Loki is acting furious and why Evon went all pale and stalled out so abruptly).

Then he _does_ get it, or at least he thinks he does, and his stomach drops straight into his boots roller-coaster-ride-style. "Um, Loki, what do you mean _if you somehow manage to live?_ " He doesn't bother trying to mask the concern in his voice; this _is_ concerning, no point in hiding it. "Why on earth wouldn't you," he goes on, realizing only afterwards that he's probably chosen entirely the wrong turn of phrase.

Or not.

His prisoner comes up on one elbow, with a pained little grunt, and looks him square in the eye. " _Why on earth_ exactly. Don't be naive. You know full-well the Allfather will very likely have me executed."

Executed? _Executed?_ No, Mike can honestly say he _hadn't_ known or expected that. " _Why,_ he blurts out in shocked stupidity.

"You soft, sentimental fool," Loki says quietly. "Mortals, always with your silly happily ever afters. By rights you and your people should welcome my death - I killed a lot of your kind, after all, through little to no fault of their own. Are their lives worth so little to you? So very little that you would dishonor their very memory in exchange for a small, unwarranted kindness given a _monster?_ "

"I'm s-sorry," Mike stammers - there's so much he wants to say, should say, but it's all tangled up together and he doesn't even know how to begin - "but I fail to see how your pointless death honors them. Maybe- oh, hell, I don't know... maybe we just do things differently here." He realizes only as Loki pulls free that he was still holding – probably painfully hard, from the marks - onto the prisoner's arm.

"You're a _jailor_ , Mike," Loki points out. "Just how differently do you _really_ think you do things?"

_Pretty fucking differently, actually,_ Mike wants to snap back in pissed-off, hurt retaliation, but Loki's voice is icy-cold now and his eyes are hard. "I don't speak for the entire planet, obviously," he says instead. _I'm not fucking royalty, after all; I'm just a regular guy_ \- "But, yeah: I don't let anyone treat my prisoners with needless cruelty and I don't think two wrongs make a right. And I like to believe many of the people who pass through these halls can – despite their various past histories - pay sufficiently for their crimes and be rehabilitated. So, from what you're saying about Asgard, me? Yeah, I'm not sorry to say I do things pretty differently."

Loki sneers, then grimaces as Evon chooses that rather inopportune moment to give his handiwork one last careful inspection. For a short while Mike thinks his prisoner is going to go on the offensive yet again about _sentiment_ \- at which point he may just lose his own temper a little. Or cry. This latest development has him feeling pretty damned awful, now that he starts to think about it - but Loki just lets his head drop back into the towel-pillow with a muffled thud.

_Let it go, let it go. Talk to Fury later; here and now, let it go._ "Well," Mike says brightly, all smiling false cheer, “we can't solve all the universe's problems tonight, can we? When did you last eat, Loki?"

That startles their prisoner; it takes him a shade too long to hide it , too. "It's been a while," he admits, looking a little less hostile.

Mike looks at Evon, who frowns. "How long is a while," the doctor prods. "A few days? A week? Longer?"

Loki purses his dry, cracked lips. "Longer, I think. They didn’t give me much of anything, and I probably vomited what little they did give me up anyway."

Evon, having put the remainder of his surgical supplies away, strips off his soiled gloves with an enthusiastic snap and starts in with the hand sanitizer. "Well, if that’s the case, we need to start you back on food and water very slowly or your body will just revolt. Mike, can you call and have someone send down a little broth and toast, and some water, while we finish up here?" He meets Mike’s gaze and, while the doctor’s voice is still smooth and calm, Mike can’t help but notice Evon looks as shaken as he himself feels.

He mouths “Talk later” and then wonders “Finish up?” aloud.

“Just the rest of this here” – the doctor gestures to Loki’s neck – “and then we’re done.”

Oh, right, the pressure ulcers from the muzzle straps and collar. Awesome. He's had just about enough, of all of this. Just about as much as he can take for one day.

He does as asked, though, calling one of his guys to do the food-fetching. Then he and Evon get back to work, irrigating and disinfecting and salving and dressing. It’s repetitive, mindless busy-work and it should be enough to distract him, it should.

But it's not.

Try as he might to focus on what his hands are doing, or to think about food or sleep, all Mike can really do is dwell on the apparent fact that _in two weeks' time this guy, who has already suffered more than anyone should by rights be made to suffer, could be dead._ Killed by order of the man who, from what Mike understands, long purported to be Loki's father.

It doesn't seem okay, not at all. He’s not sure how to go about making it okay.

More than that, he’s not sure he wants to be the kind of person would _could_ be okay with it. Not sure at all.


	7. People can be Unpredictable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm going to stop apologizing for short chapters because they seem to be what's happening now. XD
> 
> Loki isn't sure how to handle Mike and Evon.

His _jailor_ and his healer work away quietly, still finishing patching him up. No one is talking now; no joking, no smiling. They still seem to be going well out of their way not to hurt him, as they work to clean and dress the mess his recent bondage had made of the back of his neck and upper shoulders, but the mood in the cell now is tense and strained. It’s differently tense than it was early on, too; they're not so afraid of him this time, he's just- just, what, hurt their feelings?

Loki knows he behaved hatefully a few minutes ago. Well, his two _helpers_ had that coming. He has never been good with sympathy, with pity. With kindness. It's simply too big a risk, letting people in – a risk he cannot even consider letting himself be willing to take. It’s just not safe. In his experience those _luxuries_ often - always? - come with strings attached. Powerful, dangerous strings that threaten to strangle. That, and these mortals should know better than to risk themselves to help him.

They're either playing at something, or they're idiots. And either way they deserve what they just got - which was nothing but the unvarnished truth, after all; Odin may very well have his _darling_ changeling son executed, and the people of Midgard _should_ be pleased about it - and he's not about to feel sorry. So what if he was a bit harsh about it?

Except he does feel sorry. Sorry for Mike and Evon - maybe they really _are_ just decent people doing their jobs- decently... in which case they have been first needlessly nice and then unfairly _rewarded_ \- and sorry for himself. He's utterly exhausted and hurting everywhere, more than he was when he got here in a few places (although even Asgard's healing processes work that way sometimes, so it's not an unexpected turn of events and not one that particularly troubles him), and he finds himself rather missing the way they were comforting him before.

Before he was an ass. Before he drove them away with his sharp tongue, the way he chases everyone off.

The way he protects himself and keeps himself safe.

The way he winds up terribly, utterly lonely.

Well, now they know what he's really like. There's no going back from that, even if he does feel sorry. Sorry and guilty and bad and so, so tired. A hot tear trickles down Loki's nice clean cheek and into the towel. He's suddenly very, very glad Evon and Mike are working behind him and can't see.

~

Loki is rigid beneath their hands and Mike longs to say something, to do something, to help _make it better_. But his prisoner - now that the guy is regaining some sense of himself and is more aware - pulled away from friendly touch and obviously doesn't want to be coddled... and it's not like there's anything Mike can really do to help anyway. This prisoner's own father is probably going to have him killed, over (admittedly, sure, despicable) things; things Loki did, though – from what they’ve been learning - under at least the threat of considerable coercion... what could possibly help with _that?_ It would be pretty fucking presumptuous to try, now, wouldn't it. No wonder Loki snapped at him.

So he goes about the work of helping Evon as best he can and gives the prisoner space.

When Evon finishes irrigating and dressing the last of the open sores, he - "one last thing between us and dinner, and this is going to hurt quite a bit as well; I'm sorry" - rolls Loki onto his back and goes on to thoroughly inspect (as in push and squeeze and sometimes even wiggle) every possible fracture site. There's quite a bit of wincing and yelping involved - so much so that, after a particularly unhappy noise, Mike very nearly grabs Loki's hand without thinking and only just stops himself in the nick of time - but the final verdict isn't nearly as bad as expected: "Most of these seem to be healing, Loki. Some of them aren't lined up properly, but I expect you can fix that when you're granted access to your magic, yes?"

Loki's eyes are closed. He sighs loudly, and Mike braces for another ugly outburst - Evon did say _when,_ not _if_ , after all - but in the end their prisoner just nods.

The doctor does some complex, painful-looking manipulation of Loki's hips. "I don't think anything is broken here, either. Just some ligament damage in the back of the pelvis which, yes, can be quite painful in and of itself. But it isn’t something that needs treatment; it will resolve on its own, now that the trauma causing it has stopped." Evon tugs a blanket loose and spreads it over Loki. "Well, I think we've beat you quite up enough for one day, don't you?"

Another nod.

~

Mike had expected Evon would take his leave of them before dinner, once all the medical stuff was taken care of. When the guard arrives with food, and Evon shows no sign of budging, he says as much. So: It seems the whole re-feeding business is tricky, much like it is for prisoners who've staged hunger strikes (Mike's detention facility hasn't had that happen yet. They like to joke among themselves that it's because their kitchen staff is so fucking awesome, but it's probably simply that they've been lucky. Still, he’s had to learn the process in order to be properly prepared to manage it correctly if and when a situation arises), and the doctor feels he should be part of it.

Which is, of course, fine – Evon has been very good with Loki so far and Mike knows – even though they’ve only worked together a day - he’ll miss the doctor when Evon does leave.

What's even better: This very helpful doctor of theirs has given the whole situation a bit more thought and has decided - in his professional opinion, and who can argue with that? - they really need to keep the prisoner here for at least a week or so; only when they can really be certain he's healing properly and starting to stabilize nutritionally can they safely transfer him, especially off-realm to a place they themselves cannot follow. Meanwhile, Evon says, he is happy to check in on their prisoner daily - inspect wounds, change dressings, that sort of thing.

All of which buys Mike time to- well, it basically buys him time to buy time. A powerful wave of relief surges through him, leaving him almost giddy. He hops up and goes quickly to the door before he can do something- regrettable.

"We have here..." - he roots through the paper bag - "water and- beef broth, I'd say, from the smell. And a half-slice of toast." It smells good; his own mouth starts to water. He's abruptly reminded he hasn't eaten in hours and hours. When they finally get Loki tucked in he and Evon are going to grab some real food, Mike decides. Real food and a beer or five.

He crosses back to the bench. Problem: This clearly isn't the sort of meal that suits itself to consumption while lying down. "I think we need to get you back up before we get started. Unfortunately sitting's pretty much going to suck, isn't it?"

Loki groans in what probably passes for agreement; Evon just looks thoughtful. "Oh, I think you can do it if we help you, Loki," the doctor corrects after a bit, "considering how well you were getting about earlier."

 _Like when, you know, you were busy fending us off and/or flying off the handle,_ Mike thinks. Evon would probably not appreciate it if he said _that_ aloud, though, so he doesn't.

"Take my hands," the doctor instructs. Their prisoner does, slowly and cautiously but without anything that looks like real hesitation. It’s more like all this has made the poor guy sluggish. "Good. Now swing your legs down. No, we'll fix the bedding for you,” Evon adds as Loki frees a hand and tries to fuss with a blanket. “You just worry about getting yourself comfortably situated."

It takes some work but they do get Loki wedged and padded and wrapped and tucked; so much so that, in the end, their prisoner is left sitting on the blanketed bench in a bit of a blanket volcano that leaves nothing but his head and feet showing. Once they stop Loki finally opens his eyes again and keeps them open, looking first at the mountain of blankets and then at the food.

"I fear feeding myself like this is going to be beyond even me," he rasps. Loki somehow manages to sound even more drained than Mike feels. Which, no lie, is probably the world's grossest understatement ever.

"Not to worry; I've got it all under control," Evon says - with a smile, an actual smile, and Mike feels himself smiling too - cup of broth held in one hand and spoon in the other.

~

They're not acting like they're _just done_ with him after all, his own earlier behavior notwithstanding. Loki's really not sure what to make of the whole thing, especially given it's clear they're now planning to hand-feed him.

Loki hasn't been fed like this – for any reason, by anyone - since early childhood, when he'd take a nasty tumble out of one of Idunn's apple trees. It's embarrassing and it leaves him feeling rather like a child again. He's about to set them both straight when his tired, battered body betrays him and - completely without his permission! - starts crying.

Apparently brave warriors can only take so much. Even - especially? - _broken, monstrous_ ones.

Broken, humiliated monsters.

They don't laugh, though. They don’t even look as if they’re fighting not to; they just look sad, and a little concerned. Mike presses his arm once, for the briefest of instants, through the blankets and makes shushing sounds; Evon doesn't really react at all; he never misses a beat, only scooping up a little bit of broth like he does this every day. "Let me know when you're ready to try this.” The healer sniffs the spoon from a polite distance. “It doesn't smell half-bad, actually."

It doesn't - it smells lovely, even over the fading mint smell, and his sorry, empty stomach rumbles. But he can't stop crying, and he has nowhere to hide.

~

Evon wipes Loki's face matter-of-factly, using a corner of the closest blanket. "Here, tiny bite. Try it for me." Loki slumps back against the wall, but his chapped lips part. The doctor pops the broth in.

Loki swallows.

Nothing whatsoever happens, which is good. Very good indeed.

They keep at it, slowly and patiently, until everything Evon wants Loki to eat is gone.

~

Mike takes a big swig of beer. "Ahh. I love my job and all but just now it is _nice_ to be out of that place." He looks around at the crowded pub. "And in this one!"

Evon snickers, then nods. "He's interesting, though, our case." The two of them are, by unspoken agreement and longstanding professional habit, not using the prisoner's name here.

"Yeah, almost too interesting, y'know? Oh, and listen, thanks for helping us out." Mike takes another oversized gulp, then does his best to burp discretely. "Bruce probably didn't give you nearly enough warning about what it was you would be getting yourself into."

Evon laughs long and hard this time, shoulders shaking. Maybe they’ve both had a few too many. "Oh, with Bruce, the minute he calls," – he says, when he is able to speak again, as he wipes his eyes with the back of a hand - "I _always_ know it's going to be _something_."


	8. Timing is Everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bruce and Greg need to pinch-hit.

When it's time to order food they leave the crowded bar area and head for a quiet(er) booth in the back - someplace they can actually talk without having to be quite so cautious, especially since _cautious_ is rapidly becoming pretty difficult to manage. "So," Mike asks, leaning in across the table, "what do you think? Can someone like- like our subject," - he studiously avoids the word _prisoner,_ since they're not exactly alone even here... although the booths are high-backed and he can't hear anything beyond the occasional burst of laughter from the neighboring tables - "ever recover from that type of experience? Or will he have- will he struggle like this all his life? Assuming... you know." He can't get it out, can't say _assuming his life lasts more than two weeks longer_. It's unspeakably sad; he's not even sure why, but he does know all this beer isn't helping. He's gonna pay for this tomorrow.

Evon slumps low in the seat, chin resting on interlaced fingers. "It's definitely possible. People are amazingly resilient, and in this specific case he does have a lot of natural resources to draw on. That said, the whole situation is- it’s complicated. I think there's probably quite a bit more involved than just this particular experience, bad as it undoubtedly was, and the impression I got talking with- with our mutual friend is much the same: that our subject had significant issues before any of this happened. Still," he says as Mike makes what has to be an almost-ridiculously-distressed face, "even considering all that, he can certainly make good progress. He won't be caught tight in the clutches of this forever."

Mike breathes a sigh of relief. "I know he's done terrible things, I do. And I know the Big Boss thinks he's just putting us on, but-."

"Oh, he's not," Evon cuts in. "Oops, sorry," - the doctor hiccups - "you were talking. That was so rude of me. Sorry." His face flushes bright red.

Mike laughs. "No, go ahead. What were you going to say?"

"I'm positive he's not putting us on. There's no way. I know he's rumored to be an expert liar, perhaps one of the best there is, but there are physiological responses to this sort of thing even the best of the best can't accurately mimic. Our subject may be every last thing he's rumored to be, but his pain and his terror are real."

"I just don't see _how_ that's okay," Mike grumbles, almost distracted from the topic at hand by _how many big words Evon can still use when he’s trashed_. "We're not even really talking - from what I've seen in his file, at least, which I know probably isn't everything - a tooth for a tooth or an eye for an eye." He winces. "Okay, yeah, that was a pretty poor choice of words. But you know what I mean, right? Don't you?" This is important, and he’s doing an awful job of explaining it somehow.

"I think I do," Evon assures him earnestly, one hand on his beer and the other drifting down to rest lightly on Mike's arm. "From what I've read and been told, most of his casualties were collateral damage. There were only a couple of instances of real, directed cruelty and those had a specific, non-personal intent. That absolutely doesn't make what he's done okay, not at all, but-"

"-but no one deserves being fucked up like that," Mike finishes.

Evon nods. "Right, exactly. You know, you're surprisingly perceptive for a prison officer. I've worked with a lot worse, I tell you. When I got the call it was kind of an eye-roller but- you're good."

Mike laughs. "Are you hitting on me? No, kidding, kidding," he rushes to add as Evon looks utterly shocked. "I'm sorry, man, I'm shitfaced. Seriously, just joking, not trying to make you uncomfortable, sorry." He's babbling. He feels like an the world largest ass.

The doctor smiles. "Hush. Relax. It's fine. But, no, sorry to disappoint you."

They both laugh, naturally enough. Still, Mike feels a whole, whole lot like the earth ought to open up and swallow him.

When the waitress shows up with their food, he thinks he’s never been so happy to see sweet potato fries in his entire life. He takes a huge bite of his sandwich and chews, willing the thing to shut him up until he's sober.

~

He'd declined both pain medication and something to help him sleep, once Evon'd admitted that drugs like that would knock him out and leave him unable to protect himself. It's not that he doesn't feel safe around the two of them - relatively speaking, at least, he does. It's just that he- he can't be that vulnerable. Not now, not ever again.

By a few hours later, though, the sutures feel like so much creeping fire and he's itching and miserable and _so alone_ and, well, Loki's starting to seriously reconsider his own decision. He can't get comfortable, he can't sleep, he can't sit he can't walk he can't move.

Every time he almost dozes off, his mind fills with horrors. He jerks awake, shaking. He hurts so bad. He's so tired. But when he shuts his eyes he sees - needles and chains and filth and cocks that are more like tentacles and whips and brands and _fuck!-_ he jerks awake yet again and right now if Evon offered him drugs he would willingly lick them right off the mortal healer's skin. Anything to sleep - even for the littlest while – with a mind wiped clean of hideous memories.

~

Mike and Evon laugh their way through a late, late dinner, both far too drunk for guys who need to go to work in the morning. About halfway through dessert, though, Mike turns abruptly serious: "Do you think our subject is okay? Should we have left him alone like this? I feel- bad. And drunk," he adds, without laughing this time.

Evon nods, quickly matching Mike's suddenly-somber mood. "I'm worried about him too. I wish he'd let us sedate him. I get why he didn't, I do, but I wish- I wish he'd been able to trust us enough."

"Should we stop in on our way outta here?"

"Um," Evon somehow manages to both grin and look petrified at the same time. "Won't that get your drunk ass fired?"

It probably could, but no one's around this time of night - just the guy watching the monitors, and a few sleeping guards who are only there to be mobilized in the event of an emergency. "No," Mike says, figuring it's as good a time as any to play the odds. "Seriously, doc, we did a lot to him earlier and he was pretty wrecked. I just want to be sure he's okay. If he's sleeping like a baby," he reassures Evon, "we'll just crawl off to our respective beds."

~

It's really quiet, almost strangely so, outside after the noise of the bar. Mike's ears are ringing. He's come to his senses a little out here in the cold air. "Um, let me call the cell block monitor. He can take a peek and let us know how things are going." There's no point in heading back over there in this condition only to find their charge snoring away peacefully.

He drops his phone twice making the call.

"Hey. Yeah, it's Mike. Mind taking a look at the detention block for me? Thanks!" _He's checking,_ he mouths at Evon, who's weaving more a little as he stands waiting by the building. "Ugh. No, not your fault. Thanks again. We'll check on him in a little while. Yeah, bye. He's wide awake and really restless," Mike tells the doctor unhappily as he struggles to shove his phone back in his pocket. "I guess he really hasn't slept at all since we left - mostly just tossed and turned, jerking awake when he dozes off." He frowns. "He sounds pretty damned miserable. We shouldn't have gone out."

"Well, it's a little late to worry about that now, isn’t it," Evon says, shaking his head unsteadily. They both laugh - it's not all that funny, not even funny at all, but undeniably true just the same. "So, what do we do?"

Mike thinks. "We walk back. I'll go check on him while you wait outside... once I see what's wrong I'll call you."

"You really, really sure you won't get in major trouble?" Evon looks pretty skeptical; maybe he's acting worse than he feels?

"I'll try not to." Mike means it. He _will_ try. It’s not like he's never been drunk before.

"You know, we could call Bruce."

"Oh no no no no no!" Mike flails frantically, waving his arms around. "The two of them combined could wreck the whole fucking building."

Evon shrugs. "Maybe so. But we could at least get his advice, no? It's only..." - the doctor squints in the bar window, looking at the clock on the back wall – “11:30-ish. He won't kill us for that, y'know?"

Bruce probably won't kill them for it, no. But he will be all Zen’d-out this late and he won't be pleased, Mike's sure. But Evon is probably right. Again. He sighs as loudly as he can - he's Making A Point, after all - and then digs again for his phone.

He actually manages to dial without dropping it this time.

~

Bruce sets his phone down verrrrry slowly and carefully, in the exact center of his placemat, and stares at it blankly. Somehow - he has no idea what even happened; really, _no_ idea - he just found himself signed up to visit Loki (yes, _that_ Loki) over in detention, when he should be settling down to read in bed, with a young guard who 1) isn't used to doing this sort of thing and 2) doesn't even know they've been volunteered just yet. _It'll be fiiiiine,_ both Mike and Evon - drunk and giggly and on speakerphone in what sounded suspiciously like the middle of the street - had assured him. _Greg_ \- that's the guard; barely more than a kid, really - _just helped out with their subject earlier today,_ Mike'd said. _The guy is totally used to him. Nothing will go wrong._

_Oh, plenty could go wrong,_ Bruce thinks, glasses dangling from one hand and bridge of the nose pinched hard between thumb and index finger of the other. _So, so incredibly wrong._ But it's not like he'd really had a choice, is it: _If it's a big deal we'll just go ourselves,_ they'd promised (threatened)... and then shrieked in unison as a car horn blared. They were - are - clearly both completely plastered and if he'd said no and something’d happened... well... yeah, no choice. None at all.

He gives them about five minutes to complete their intoxicated notifications and then calls Greg at the number Mike'd provided. "Hey, sorry to bother you, but-."

"Yeah, Dr. Banner. Um. No problem. Um." There's a long pause, which Bruce sincerely hopes Greg is spending searching for his own brain. "Meet you at the main doors in twenty?"

Again, no choice. Bruce unhappily agrees. He doesn't bother setting the phone down this time; no amount of feng shui is going to fix this mess. Instead he shuffles resignedly off to his bedroom in search of an acceptable shirt and actual pants.

~

Greg grabs a wand and activates the door grille. "Um. Hi, Loki."

Loki, eyes slitted, lets his head roll along the wall just enough see the door. "Greg," he grates faintly.

"Officer- Mike sent me – sent us - to check on you. The night monitor thought you might need help." Greg forges doggedly on despite Loki’s frankly-suspicious expression. "Mike had me bring a doctor with me just in case."

The prisoner’s eyes shift. "Banner and I are acquainted."

Greg doesn’t seem to have a reaction ready for that; Bruce knows he needs to take over.

"Loki," he says, nodding, as he steps up to the door. He hasn't seen Thor's brother since that day in Central Park; the change in Loki's condition - which, yes, wasn't exactly awesome that day to start with... and he doesn't doubt they both clearly remember why - is nothing short of astounding. Basically, Loki looks like a prisoner of war. Like some of the very poor, parasite-infested aged and infirm Bruce’d treated out of his makeshift office in Southeast Asia, before S.H.I.E.L.D. had come calling. And that's just taking into consideration what little he can see: Loki’s head and neck are a solid expanse of cuts and bruises, his eyes are dull and sunken, the skin of his face is stretched tightly over bone with nothing in between. The rest of Loki is more or less mummified in the largest aggregate collection of cotton wash blankets Bruce has ever seen outside linen storage.

"Banner,” the prisoner responds. His voice is faint and hoarse. “I hope you haven't come all this way just to thrash me; I fear something has beaten you to it."

He's not going to take the bait. "Mike and Evon asked me to stop by in case you needed medical care," he explains. Calm. Peaceful. "That's all."

Bruce expects some back-talk but it doesn't come. Instead, pretty much all of the _attitude_ drains straight out of Loki's expression – the prisoner just looks weak and sick and- and pleading and lost. "I _am_ in an awful lot of pain," he admits. "Rather more than I bargained for."


	9. A Fate Worse than Death

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dawn rises - roughly - on a rough night.

"Give me a minute to talk to the guys, okay?" Bruce leans against the door, where Loki can both see and hear him easily, and brings Mike up on speaker. "Okay, we're here. He's hurting. Lucid, but really hurting. What was Evon's care plan? And Mike?", he suggests after a particularly loud honk, "how 'bout you both get out of the street?"

Bruce points at the phone and rolls his eyes, then takes a really big chance and winks at Loki.

Who actually almost cracks a smile.

That can’t be too bad, under the circumstances.

"-he can't do needles right now, at all. They trigger him," Evon is explaining slowly and precisely. And loudly. It sounds like he’s a lot closer to the phone than he thinks he is. "I was going to give him an oral narcotic, if he wanted pain control. If he's let the whole situation go too long and can't wait for pills to take effect, you could pull the needle off a syringe and go with sublingual... or even the inside of the cheek... but I'd be really careful - just the sight of the syringe posed a significant problem before. Oh, and Bruce? Keep in mind that he’s really concerned about being left defenseless."

It makes perfect sense, all things considered. Of course, Bruce himself is not exactly the ideal antidote for that particular worry.., and talking about the prisoner as though he’s not even present isn’t likely to be helping the situation either. Nothing to be done for any of that, though. Onward. "Has he had anything so far?"

"Just antibiotics. Bruce, do I need to talk to him?" It’s a nice idea but Evon, good intentions notwithstanding, still sounds far too drunk to be useful.

Bruce lifts an eyebrow at Loki, who shakes his head cautiously. "No thanks,” Bruce tells Evon. “I think we're okay. You guys go home and sleep it off. We'll talk tomorrow." He checks the time, groaning inwardly. "Well, today, actually… but later. Much later."

~

It takes what feels like forever for Greg to get them safely into the cell. Bruce expects to feel threatened and angry in here, basically trapped in a little cage with the _puny god_ who once had them all dancing on a string like so many mindless puppets... but none of the potent, manipulative energy Loki’d possessed on the helicarrier is in evidence now. Even at close range he- he just seems subdued and afraid. It’s almost worse, in a way.

"If we stay with you until Mike comes in to work," _which could be lunchtime the way the two of them sounded just now,_ "will you let me give you something for the pain?" Bruce can't believe he's offering to do this - suggesting it, even, for _Loki_ of all people - but it's out of his mouth before he can think the better of it. "Greg and I will keep an eye on you and make sure no one else comes in," he promises.

After a lengthy pause, during which Bruce figures Loki is probably contemplating the best way to barbecue him, the prisoner – his patient, now, because fate is unkind - shrugs. At least it looks like shrugging; through all the blankets it's hard to be sure.

"Look," Bruce says, keeping his voice as neutral as he can, "I realize exactly nothing about this situation is even remotely okay. You don't like it, I don't like it." He takes a deep breath. "If you want me to go, I will. Greg and I can leave you in peace and you can give the whole pain control business another try when Drunk and Drunker show up in the morning. I am totally okay with that, I really am. But if you need something to help you right now, I'm here and willing to do what you need. Your call."

Another long, uncomfortable pause; Loki looks at the wall, Bruce at the ceiling.

Finally his beleaguered prisoner-patient clears his throat. When Bruce looks him in the eye Loki swallows hard, then nods. A single tear trails down one cheek. "I don't like it," he grouses, "I don't like it at all. But I can’t- I just- if this is the only way I- I will make do."

So be it. Bruce pulls a bottle out of his pocket and pours four white tablets into one palm. He holds them up for Loki to inspect. "These will make you feel pretty dazed, I guess you could say, and then they will help with the pain and the sleep. Okay?"

Loki nods, a tiny, pitiful, spare motion. He lets Bruce tip the pills into his mouth, followed by a few small swallows of water.

It’s about fifteen minutes, give or take, before Loki's eyes glaze over and droop half-shut. When Bruce sits, slow and gingerly, at the end of the bench and gently, carefully helps the prisoner down to rest head-and-shoulders in his lap, Loki doesn't protest at all; he just settles in, cheek resting against Bruce's pant leg, and closes his eyes.

_Sorry,_ Bruce mouths at Greg. The kid just shrugs - a big whole-body shrug with both hands held, palm up, out to the sides - and slides down the wall to sit, his wand held bravely at attention, by the door.

The prisoner twitches himself awake a last few times but quickly settles back down. Within half an hour he is sound asleep, breathing slow and even, a little drool pooling on Bruce's thigh.

Bruce feels a sharp rush of pity - he doesn't even want to try and imagine just how awful _he_ would have to feel in order to be willing to make this sort of concession in reverse. Of course, he's a lot nicer than Loki... but probably not from Loki's point of view. It's a rough nasty universe out there, when the Hulk is the lesser evil.

~

Mike's not sure quite how he got home. He's also not sure - although he can hazard a fair guess - why he just woke up more or less _on_ the toilet, arms draped over and around it and cheek resting on the seat. He's darned glad he's right here, though, when he tries to straighten up just the slightest bit and the room _lurches_. Lurches and tilts and spins.

Fuck.

When he's pretty much down to dry heaves, he tries sitting up again. Yeah, no luck. And to top it off, God, his head is in a vise. This is going to be one long fucking day. 

A groan behind him, so crushingly loud he can practically feel it warp his skull, makes him jump half out of his skin. Whoa. Okay, he's _really_ not sure why Evon is - mostly asleep but fully clothed, thank God, because this would already be way more than a little awkward if he could stop puking long enough to really think about it - in Mike's bathtub.

"For fuck's sake stop that already," the doctor groans as Mike retches yet again, "or I will puke right here and we will both regret it. Seriously, just _stop_.

If only. Mike barely manages to get to his feet and flush - clean water for guests; his mother would be so proud - and then has to hang over the sink instead. "All yours, buddy," he tells Evon, spitting in the sink and then letting the tap run. Might as well try to wash his face while he's here. Since it seems like he’s going to be here a while and all.

To Evon's credit, the doctor makes it out of the tub and across the bathroom - all the way to the toilet, even - before he's puking too. Mike would laugh, but it hurts way too much. "Hey, do you medical types have anything fancy for this sort of thing?" He passes Evon a clean towel.

"Water-Advil-time. If I had a magic hangover cure," the doctor grimaces, scrubbing his face with the towel, "would I be here? I mean here like jail-doctoring,” he corrects quickly, “not here like puking in your bathroom. Um."

"Good point. And it's fine. Here, I mean." Mike waves a hand around, trying to indicate the bathroom, but that sets off a fresh round of spinning and dry heaves. "I have no fucking clue how I'm going to keep any water down, though," he adds when he can finally talk again. His throat feels like it's been sandpapered and his mouth tastes like rotting garbage. "Ugh, just shoot me now and put me out of my misery. What the fuck were we thinking?"

Evon laughs, then winces and clutches his own head. "We weren't?"

~

Once it's clear they (sadly) aren't going to die Evon - who seems to be a little less the worse for wear, at least in part because he can keep water down, the show-off - decides to head home and change out of his filthy, slept-in clothes. Mike wants nothing more than to lie back down and fucking expire (right here on the rumpled bathmat would be perfectly fine, thank you for asking), but he knows they've already pushed their luck right up to the breaking point.

He needs to get back to the detention center.

Pronto.

So he gives himself a cursory shave and showers and throws up a few more times - well, he would, if there was anything left _to_ throw up, which there apparently isn’t... but his body is an exceptionally slow learner this morning - and brushes his teeth and throws on a clean uniform, all the while praying to be struck down where he stands.

Yeah, no luck there.

Once he’s ready to head back to work, he digs his sticky, gross phone out of last night's pants and texts Greg.

_Shh the kidz r sleeping_ is all he gets in reply.

~

Thank God or whatever else is up there, he doesn't run into anyone he knows, because Mike is one hurtin’ unit this morning and he undoubtedly looks the part. When he finally makes it to the detention cellblock he takes great pains to move absolutely as quietly as possible, partly in deference to Greg's message and partly out of consideration for his own poor throbbing head. He gives all of the metal furniture a wide berth, carefully not knocking into anything, and takes special pains not to let any of the doors slam.

The bright lights in here nothing can touch, though. For perhaps the first time in his life he envies those S.H.I.E.L.D. bastards and their ever-present sunglasses.

He squints into the cell and - holy hell!

It can't be. Not. Possible. Still. Tanked?

But no. There they are, Loki cuddled up sleeping like the dead (Mike wishes he was) in Bruce's lap; Bruce doing the guppy with his head tipped back against the wall. It's the same kind off _aww, cute_ as kittens playing all over a block of C4 and a detonator would be. Mike activates the door grille, willing the speaker not to pop. "Greg," he hisses.

Up jumps the guard, wand gripped in both hands and resting across his shoulders. "Boss. Wow. Rough night?"

Mike shuts his eyes. "Don't even. What the fuck is going on in there?"

"Um. Dr. Banner drugged the prisoner," Greg whispers. "With permission, don't worry. And then they went to sleep. And I didn't, because I didn't want to miss Armageddon."

Awesome. And not funny. "Okay, I need you in this corner, quietly," Mike stupidly points with his head and all but gags. He swallows hard, wishing like hell his mouth would stop fucking watering. "I'm going to come in and see if I can't defuse this somehow."

The cell door creaks as Mike swings it open; Bruce shifts. Loki is thankfully still dead to the world… Mike can't help but wonder how long it's been since the poor bastard really slept. "Look up at me, Bruce," he whispers. "And think very, very calm thoughts."

Eyes still closed, Bruce smiles. "If you think I may have forgotten what's sitting here with me... no such luck, I assure you."

"Listen," Mike hisses with as much quiet urgency as he can. "I need you out of this cell before he comes to. If he goes bonkers, I don't need the-."

"-the big guy wrecking your cells, I know."

Mike forces a smile - Bruce did them a huge favor, after all, and he deserves decent treatment in return. "Yeah, the paperwork would do me in," he says. "Do you need help getting out from under him?"

"Ugh! You smell like the floor of a dive bar," Bruce tells him - nose wrinkled in disgust - as Mike moves closer. "But, to get back to your question, I could use a hand."


	10. Making it Right

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mike tries to make amends.

Voices.

Hands.

_Hands!_

He opens his eyes. Blinks.

Faces. Faces! Faces, way too close.

He's groggy and confused and everything is blurry and _fuck that voice belongs to Banner! Right here. Banner. Fuck fuck fuck!_ Loki tries to sit up, to twist into a less vulnerable position somehow while he gets his wits about him, but he's all tangled up in something - something soft, soft but unyielding. He thrashes and struggles, trying to free his hands or to roll away, and smacks his head against something hard in the process. It hurts everything hurts he's trapped hands and faces people are shouting Banner right here Banner could kill him oh gods oh gods " _STOP!!_ " he roars. "Get away from me. Stop!"

Just like that everything stops. The cell is silent except for his own harsh, panicked panting. The hands and faces are gone.

"Loki?"

He tries and fails to make his foggy brain work properly. The voice is Mike's, but the officer sounds... all wrong somehow.

"Loki, it's Mike." - Mike, yes, that's a good thing; Loki tries to focus on it - "I'm here. I can explain. I just need you to calm down before you hurt yourself. Okay?"

Too many words. He can't process that much.

"Do you want Greg and Bruce to leave?"

Bruce. Leave. Yes! He does want Banner far, far away. As far away as possible, as fast as possible. Loki nods, face rubbing over more softness.

Blankets. Blankets? He's so confused.

"-ry, guys, but I need to ask you to leave." Mike is talking again, then, doing what Loki asked. That's good too? "Greg, stick around in the hall. Bruce, I'll call you later. Thanks."

The blurry figures shift, the door clicks twice. Quiet. He and Mike are alone now. Loki takes a deep breath and wills himself to calm down. It's not easy: He hurts. Banner was here. Here! He could have died!

"Loki, can I ask you to try not to scream?"

He looks around. It's just the two of them. It is. He nods.

"Thank you."

Loki's not sure he's ever heard a mortal sound even half as deeply grateful as Mike just did.

"Okay, first things first,” Mike says. “Do you need more pain medicine?"

Pain medicine. Groggy. Banner. _Oh._ That does sound familiar. "More?", he asks.

"Yeah, you had some in the night. Do you remember?"

He- he kind of does. He tries to shrug but it doesn't go so well.

"Uh, actually… speaking of first things and all that, do you want to sit up?"

That, yes, he's sure of. Things have to look better right-side-up. They do. "Please." His own voice sounds funny. It echoes.

"Okay, I'm going to come over and help you. Oh," Mike chuckles, "you might want to hold your breath. I've been told - even though I did shower and change, I swear - this is not one of my better-smelling mornings. Sorry!"

That actually helps somehow. Loki has had mornings like that, in happier times. He tries a little smile.

"Hey, no laughing at the miserable guy." Mike smiles back at him. Up close the prison officer looks more than a little bit like Loki feels. "Okay, I'm not going to bother doing battle with these blankets just now. Let me do the work this time, okay?"

The world tips and Loki has to shut his eyes. Moving hurts a little, but it’s bearable. When he opens his eyes afterwards everything looks _right_ again, if still a bit blurry.

"Better?"

It is. He's not flopping around like a dying fish on a riverbank anymore. He nods. "Thank you."

Mike steps back a few paces - "Sorry, I feel gross" - and sits cross-legged on the floor. That helps, too... Mike is comfortable. Calm. There is no need for panic. He can relax. He should relax.

"Pain meds," Mike prompts again. Loki thinks about it - no, he'd rather not be this groggy just now - and shakes his head.

"You okay to listen for a few minutes, then? I- I owe you an explanation. Not to mention an apology." Mike looks- sad? Embarrassed? Loki isn't quite as good with the nuances of mortal expressions as he'd like to be. Especially today, when he woke up jacked and drugged and panicky. Regardless, he's not one to turn down an apology... and this particular apology even looks like it might be reasonably sincere.

Loki nods. "Explain away."

"Well, I'm sorry," Mike starts off. "You seemed like you were going to be okay when we left here, so Evon and I went out for a beer and- well, I guess we got a little carried away. By the time we checked back in on you and found out you really weren't all that okay after all, we weren't fit to be here. It's an earth- a Midgard thing," he clarifies. "We have these rules about drinking and working. About _not_ drinking and working. Yeah yeah, okay, not like you care, I know."

Loki inclines his head and tries to look something like pleasantly interested. He's feeling a lot calmer, if still a bit dazed, and he wants to hear more. He actually feels...

"-so we had to call Dr. Banner and send him over with Greg, because Greg can't give you pain meds."

... _angry._ He feels instantly, overwhelmingly, hotly furious. "Banner. _Banner?_ You sent Banner? You know that creature could _kill_ me in this state, with my magic suppressed, right? Right?" Loki can tell from Mike's expression that he's being too loud - bordering on screechy, even - but he doesn't care. This is not okay, and it seems he has a few things to say about it. "It- he tried to kill me the last time we met! And you sent him here to _drug_ me? And you're _sorry?_ That's it? You're sorry? And that makes it okay? I knew it. I _knew_ I couldn't trust you."

He's had this argument a thousand times, with a thousand disappointing people (well, with a hundred disappointing people, and - over and over and over again – with Thor). He knows exactly how it will go - he makes this angry little speech, and then Mike gets all huffy and defensive and tells him what a worthless piece of shit he is and- and- and then Loki knows where he _really_ stands.

He may never have had the discussion in a jail cell, trapped inside a ball of blankets - there won't be any stalking off or angry door-slamming today - but in the end it's all the same. People - Aesir, mortal, perhaps even Jotun - are all the same.

Loki draws himself up as best he can - glaring, chin held high - and waits angrily, bitterly for the inevitable.

Mike squeezes his eyes shut and digs his fingers hard into both temples. So, this particular tirade will start off with a reminder about Keeping Your Voice Down, then.

Except eventually the officer holds up a finger, eyes still shut. "Give me a sec, trying not to puke. Not easy."

Hm. It's not what he expected, not yet. But mortals are a bit odd.

Mike swallows a few times. "Okay, sorry. Not having a good day. Um. Yeah." - Loki narrows his eyes - "You're right. It was a dangerous thing to do. The fact that it worked out okay - as evidenced by the fact that both the two of you _and_ my detention center are in one piece - does not change that. So, like I said, I'm sorry. Really, really sorry. I can't undo the past, though, y'know? You're right, it was a shitty thing to do." The officer shrugs.

Huh. Maybe it's still the stuff they gave him for the pain, but Loki has absolutely no idea what to make of all that. He knows he's just staring like an idiot, mouth gaping, but he's- he’s flummoxed. Mike apologized, endured his tirade, and then- apologized more? Odd as that sounds, it sure seems that’s what happened. Loki blinks.

"Well," Mike says, getting stiffly to his feet, "if you're good for now, I need to go get my ass chewed by Bruce. And maybe by Greg." He waves at the guard, who is still standing outside the cell. "Evon and I will stop by to check all your- injuries later." He gives Loki a last quick nod and hurriedly lets himself out.

"Thank you," Loki - still shaky with adrenaline, still ready to fight - says to no one.

~

Mike wipes his mouth on a couple of napkins - throwing up in his wastebasket isn't the height of class, but at least he made it out of the cell first. "Sorry, man," he tells Greg, blowing his nose and tossing the wadded napkins into the trash. "I'll go dump it out in the bathroom. I'm sorry." He is, for a lot of things. “Go ahead, you too: Let me have it.”

Greg laughs. He doesn't look angry. Or particularly disgusted. "Oh, it looks like you're already getting punished plenty," he says, still laughing.

"Yeah, pretty much. You have no idea." Mike laughs too, quietly. "I'm too old for this shit." He is. He picks up the trashcan. "I've gotta go apologize to Dr. Banner and take my second beating. You okay here for a few?"

"Sure, boss. Take your time."

"Stay out of the cell, okay," Mike warns him. "If something happens call me. Or text," he amends. Greg seems like more of a text guy.

"He's a little hot at you, eh?"

Mike shrugs. "He should be."

~

Evon and Bruce are talking in the break room. Or, rather, from the looks of it Bruce is talking _at_ Evon, who is taking his punishment like a man. "Doctors," Mike greets them. They both give him The Look and he's suddenly very aware he's still toting around his dirty trashcan. "Emergency," he adds, gesturing with it. "On my way to clean it. TMI? You need it, Evon?"

Evon glares at him, then breaks down and snorts. "Yes, actually, but I'm not positive Bruce is done with me. Plus, I'm pretty sure that's against some health-and-safety code. And if it's not, it damned well should be." His smile fades. "Did you talk to..."

"Yeah." Mike doesn't feel like standing here with his glorified, oversized barf bucket talking about Loki. "Um. Bruce. Sorry to interrupt you guys but... well, _sorry_ will have to cover it. Loki did a good job pointing out all the many, many ways my little plan sucked. I put you in a tight spot and... it won't happen again."

Bruce nods, all solemn and serious. "It'd better not.” But then the corners of his eyes crease like he’s fighting hard not to smile. “Although I do have ot admit the guy’s not half-bad when he's unconscious, really."


	11. Trying  to Plan Ahead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mike tries to lay the groundwork for a better outcome.
> 
> Holy boring chapter, Batman! It was one of those days IRL and, sadly, you can tell. Sorry, all!

The next week or so is comparatively uneventful. Mike and Evon settle into a familiar, easy routine - they meet for lunch (NO beer!) and compare notes, then pay Loki a visit and check everything over to make sure he's healing properly - and nothing out-of-the ordinary happens. Each day Loki's injuries look a little better: Bruises fading to greenish yellow and gradually disappearing, cuts closing, fresh pink skin filling in where burns and pressure ulcers once gaped raw. With some calorie intake, some sleep, and a good solid break from the torture their prisoner's naturally-accelerated healing kicks back in; it's no magic, for sure, but he's making impressive progress just the same.

As the pain decreases, too, Loki's mood slowly improves - he's still guarded, and the overnight guys report a few clear nightmares, but he doesn't trigger during the day and he isn't quite as hostile.

Sarcastic, sure, but there doesn't seem to be as much anger behind even that, so they grin and bear it and go about their work. Sometimes it's almost fun.

Sometimes he’s almost personable.

Both Mike and Evon try to keep their visits to once a day, ostensibly because Loki needs lots of down time to rest (and, in the end, this stay is not meant to be a vacation – their prisoner is still a war criminal, and they're not here to entertain him). Really, that’s just an excuse, though: Mike can't speak for Evon but, as for himself, this whole distance-keeping business is actually meant in large part to ease what comes next. They can't keep the guy here forever, and getting too attached is only going to make the inevitable - sending Loki back to face whatever passes for justice in Asgard - that much harder.

Mike does make an exception, though, on the day Evon plans to remove Loki's sutures. The doctor has warned them both that there's likely going to be a bit of a setback, pain-wise, and- well, Mike has some things he wants to discuss before that happens, just in case his prisoner is totally _over_ dealing amicably with him afterwards.

Which is how he finds himself pacing in the hall mid-morning, trying to work up the whatever-it-takes to get started.

When he shows up at Loki's door his prisoner actually manages to look surprised. "Mind if I come in," Mike asks, forgetting for a moment that it's his detention center and he can come and go as he chooses.

"As if I have a choice," Loki gripes, but he's smirking. "It's your cell, after all."

Mike smirks back. He gives the door a hard shove and marches in before he can reconsider. "Look," he starts, "I need to meet with the Director" - Loki's expression hardens, just slightly, but he keeps quiet - "later today, tomorrow at the latest, and I want to get your input on a few things before I talk to him."

He gives Loki a moment to react - nod, shake, shrug, cut in, anything - but no - his prisoner just looks up at him with bland interest. "Okay, then." He starts ticking off on a single finger. "One: Do you really think King Odin will order your execution," _or were you just using that to win my sympathy,_ he wonders privately.

"Yes, he very well may," Loki responds at once. "I have committed treason, on more than one noteworthy occasion, in addition to the crimes I’ve perpetrated against your realm. Few in Asgard would question a death sentence, should Odin see fit to demand one."

"Two:" Mike ticks off another finger. "What would the likely alternatives be?"

"An extensive - possibly lifelong - imprisonment. Torture. Banishment, although I find that particular outcome rather unlikely considering my specific record of bad off-realm behavior. So, probably, imprisonment or torture… both of which would typically be accompanied by some continued suppression of my power." Loki shudders. "That's the worst part of it all, really. You have no idea."

Mike doesn’t, it’s true. "And Three: Asgard's- dungeons? You call them dungeons, no?" - Loki nods - "How do they compare to ours? To _theirs,_ where you just were?"

"Odin tolerates little of that sort of- _wait._ " Loki's eyes narrow. "Are you _plotting,_ Officer?" His sudden grin is positively wolfish. "Are you _up to something?_ "

Sure, he might be, but Mike has no interest in sharing his plans with Loki. To have any shot at success, anyway, it absolutely can't look like their prisoner is in even the smallest way involved. Absolutely cannot. "Of course not," he scoffs. "I just need to bring Director Fury up to speed on the whole situation, and he expects all of us - not just the S.H.I.E.L.D. guys, but us poor little nobody-types too - to be well-briefed regarding our cases."

"Your cases." A little of the light goes out of Loki's expression.

Mike grits his teeth. So be it. This is more important than having his prisoner _feel all the love._ He would rather Loki have a long life than a sappy-happy last week, and he's reasonably confident - smart mouth and bad attitude aside – that, deep inside, Loki feels the same.

Reasonably confident, yes; not confident enough to ask. Well, not confident enough to hear the answer… not from the scrawny, mop-headed martyr sitting in front of him. Instead Mike makes procedural, mildly-snarky small talk concerning the afternoon’s upcoming suture removal - "I hope you and your ass have no plans for later, haha" - and then beats an awkwardly-hasty retreat.

~

Fury has a rare bit of free time before lunch, so Mike invites himself to stop in. "Director, a favor?"

He gets the famous one-eyed glare, sure, but he explains anyway.

"You want Odin to let him go." Fury summarizes, sounding at once incredulous and disgusted. And several other things Mike would rather pretend he doesn’t recognize.

"No. Yet again, no. I was just hoping S.H.I.E.L.D. could encourage containment. Over execution."

"You have to give your pet monster back, Mike."

He bites back the urge to growl in frustration. It won’t help anything. "Not here, Director - in Asgard. Where it's their resources and not ours involved. Where they are, frankly, better prepared to handle the challenges he presents."

Fury drums his fingers on the blotter. "And all this is based on-?"

"-my considerable experience - and Evon's - working with criminals and other miscreants." He spreads his hands. “Give him a chance, sir. Please? He’s got it in him to do better.

Fury sighs. “He’s _got it in him_ to kill us all.”

“I really don’t think he will. I think he can change. And I think he will.”

“I don’t doubt he _can_ change, Mike. I have to tell you, though; despite your confidence I- well, bottom line, I sincerely doubt he _will._ ”

Mike rubs his face. “All I can say is: Again, _please_. I think we should at least make it clear that, as one of former his targets, we think he should be given the benefit of another chance.”

Fury sighs heavily, yet another time. “It’s not that simple, Mike. It’s not really up to us to decide what the entire fucking planet thinks is fair.” He stares Mike down. “Okay, okay. I will send a communication to Asgard and see what I can do. If he makes me regret it, though, it’s on your ass. All of it. On. Your. Ass. Is that clear?”

It is, but Mike is too busy doing cartwheels inside to care.

~

“Oww. Is your entire _arm_ up my backside, doctor?” Suture removal had gone fairly well initially – quick, mostly painless, easy - but, now that they’re working on the more- the more _challenging_ areas, their prisoner is behaving in a markedly-less-cooperative manner.

Still, Evon smiles. No matter what Loki says or does, he really never gets the doctor going; Mike’s not sure how Evon does it, but overall he’s so impressed and he wants to learn. It’s the sort of thing that, Loki aside, could be endlessly handy. Plus, it’s just cool.

“ _OWWW,_ ” their prisoner bellows. Mike forces himself to focus on the job at hand, which is keeping Loki calm and still.

“I’m sorry, Loki,” Evon soothes. “Really, I mean it, I am. If there was an easier alternative, I assure you, I would be using it. And I’m certain it’s cold comfort but I have to tell you: Everything has healed really nicely. Breathe,” he reminds (and not for the first time). “I need to get this last batch of sutures here, and they’re quite a ways in… but then we’re done. No more itching, no more pulling” he reminds their prisoner. “I’ll put a little topical painkiller on all this business and in a few hours you’ll feel a whole lot better.” The doctor smiles again. “The best you’ve felt since you got to earth- to Midgard. Breathe.”

Loki does, taking long, slow breaths all through the speculum, the knot-cutting, the forceps. The whole endeavor doesn’t really take all that long; within a few minutes Evon is squirting a topical numbing agent in and it’s all over. “There, see,” he confirms. “All better.”

Their prisoner slumps, worn out and cranky, into his bedding. “If you say so.”

Evon chuckles. “I do. Seriously, you’re all healed. Nothing has reopened, not even with all this poking and prodding. You’re fine. Perfect. You have the nicest anus in the business. Um. Whatever business that might be.” The doctor blushes pink; he manages to do that surprisingly often, and Mike’s come to find it highly amusing. “We’ll leave you alone to sleep this off, Loki, and check back in on you tomorrow.”

“And when,” – Loki tenses as he speaks – “do you intend to send me home?”

Evon and Mike look at one another over top of their prisoner. Mike shrugs. “It isn’t up to us, actually, but probably in the next couple of days. There’s some paperwork that has to get taken care of first. S.H.I.E.L.D. regulations and all that. Will you miss us,” he asks, half-joking.

“Actually, yes.” Loki burrows into his pillow. “I think I will.”


	12. Goodbyes are Harder than they Look

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mike and Evon win Fury over.

He's on what amounts to an _intergalactic conference call_ and Nick Fury doesn't even want to _think_ about the implications of Tony Stark’s being able to imagine shit like this, let alone make it _happen_.

Apparently it's easier than actually getting Thor here, to listen to Stark blather on about it. Which Nick wishes he hadn’t. And seriously, just _this_ itself is far more than Nick needs to know.

That, and thanks to all this impressive Stark technology, he’s getting a deafening lecture. Brave New Fucking World and all that shit.

"-mean to say my brother has been in your custody for near to half your lunar month and yet you are just seeing fit to tell me _now?_ " Thor is evidently much less distracted by the sheer technological voodoo of all this than Nick is, because the god of thunder is... thundering. Endlessly. It's just like having him here, except with lots less broken furniture.

Hey, _that’s_ actually a plus, now that he thinks about it. He makes a mental note to approve Tony's rejected expense account submission, the one with all the scotch listed under _necessary medical supplies._

Oh, right, he’s supposed to be paying attention. And now Thor has gone and stopped talking. 

"It's not like it sounds, Thor,” Nick leads off. It’s a safe enough starting point. “Our first priority was stabilizing him medically-."

"And that is something Asgard's healers could most certainly address more skillfully than can yours! My brother is not mortal!"

_Oh, he was looking pretty fucking mortal when we dragged his sorry ass in here a fortnight ago, big guy._ "Listen," Nick says with his outside voice, "you'll have to take my word for it when I say he was in no condition to make the trip. Maybe you're right and I should have made a point of notifying Asgard sooner," _although there's exactly zero chance in hell I would have; you guys are the worst meddlers I've ever seen and some of your cronies would have been all up in my face fucking things up in a hot minute,_ "but we can't change the past, can we? I'm telling you now."

Thor takes a deep breath and lets it out with a deafening whoosh. "You are right. I am sorry to have taken out my frustration on you. How is he? Is he well? I have been terribly worried for him," he adds, on a second breath."

Interesting. Last Nick knew, Thor was pretty darned peeved at his problematic sibling. Must still be some of that _boundless love and optimism_ \- the _sentiment_ both Loki and Thor's fellow Avengers tend to mock - under there somewhere. "He's better. My men tell me he was in pretty rough shape when he came in, though. He'd been tortured."

That – where most everything else has failed - shuts Thor right up. After a long pause he finally repeats it - "Tortured." - as though he can't quite believe what his ears have told him.

Bluntness can only help the cause, Nick figures. "Yes, tortured. Drugged and beaten and burned and whipped and raped. Tortured."

"Loki?"

Thor's a little slow today, apparently. "Yes, Loki. Your adopted little brother. Did I lose you somewhere?"

Thor clears his throat (loudly, Nick thinks... the guy does everything loudly). "I- I was not expecting- what-?" He lapses into uncharacteristic silence again.

Okay, down to business. "Look, Thor. I expect Odin wants his so- his prisoner back, and I don't intend to stand in the way of that. But my team has led me to understand that Loki may be executed for his crimes, and- well, you have to realize my guys just aren't okay with that. Not after they spent all this time and effort patching him up, especially."

"Father would never-," Thor starts off, hotly, and then abruptly stalls.

"Right. That. I, too, have reasonable doubt… let's just say." Nick leans forward, over the phone. "So: I'd like reasonable assurance,” he adds crisply, “that what Loki has been through will be taken into consideration. _Before_ we release him to Asgard's representatives, I mean."

"I cannot say with certainty what my father will decide, but I- I do know he will wonder why you feel consideration should be given to harm suffered _after_ the crime. No matter how- how vile the harm may have been. In Asgard we would not normally deem something of that sort relevant, and convincing the Allfather to make an exception in this situation may prove very difficult. He is after all mightily displeased with Loki, to put it mildly. In addition, he will surely wish to avoid the appearance of familial favoritism."

"From what I have been told" - Nick thinks, belatedly, he should have dragged Mike in here for this conversation - "Loki was- seized by the same people who were involved in his attack on New York. Or, at least, the two incidents were related. Is that not the case?"

"No, you and your men are correct. My brother was taken from me by Thanos' lackeys as I was attempting to bring him back to face justice in Asgard. They were drawn to - and strengthened greatly by - the power of the cube. I was able to maintain possession of the cube itself but- but my brother was wrenched from my grasp." Thor swallows (loudly, of course). "It all happened very fast. They were gone, and Loki as well, before I could even bring Mjolnir to hand."

Exactly. "So, isn't it reasonable to think Loki was operating under threat of that same torture when he turned on New York? I don't know about Asgard but, here? Coercion like that often gets a guy some leniency."

"Father will never let Loki walk free, Director, I assure you-."

That's no problem. Nick isn't the least bit interested in having the god of messing shit up walk free either. "Oh, I completely understand. He committed serious crimes, and appears to have done so while he was at least mainly in his right mind." Or whatever passes for _right mind_ in Camp Loki. "But execution... well, it bothers my guys. And things that bother my guys bother me."

Thor hums. "I cannot make you any promises, Director Fury. But I see your point and you have my word - I will do what I can."

"You'll understand if I'm a little reluctant to turn my prisoner over before I've heard the outcome of your... _doing what you can._ " Never let it be said Nick Fury is afraid to stand up to these alien bastards.

He expects some lip in return but doesn't get it: "Fair enough. My brother is in your debt. We will talk soon."

Nick hits the button Stark'd told him to use and cuts the call.

~

They lurk in the hall outside Fury's makeshift office, hoping for an update. When the Director finally opens the door, though, Mike's heart leaps into his throat. He can't speak. He can't even gesture.

Fortunately Evon is less- less tongue-tied, or something. "So. How did it go," he asks brightly. "How is our dear friend the Mighty Thor?"

Fury frowns, brows wrinkling. "He's going to speak to Odin." He shakes his head. "You boys are taking one hell of a risk, you know that? One hell of a risk. And for what?"

Mike finds his voice, finally. "We have to live with ourselves, y'know? We have to sleep at night."

Fury snorts. "Let me know how that goes for you, next time he kills a few thousand people."

"Will do." Mike shrugs. "I- I still don't think he'll let me down, sir."

"Let's hope you're right, both of you. Hell, I'll even pray you are, and that’s not something I do often." The Director stalks off down the hallway without even saying _goodbye_.

~

"Do you think Fury is right, doc? Am I being snowed?" Mike and Evon are working their way messily through a couple dozen wings. Wings that would be a hell of a lot better with a pitcher of beer, but it's a _school night_ and they've both learned their lesson. Learned it recently enough that it hasn't quite worn off yet, too.

Evon licks his fingers carefully, one after another, before responding. "I- I think you were right before. You have to live with yourself. We both do. I'd like to think we've touched him in some way, that he'll be different - that the whole experience, the bad with the good - has changed him. But if not? We still have to live with ourselves." The doctor shrugs. "And I'm just not okay with sending him off to die, not-."

"-after everything he's been through," Mike finishes. He raises his eyebrows in question.

"Precisely." Evon nods in agreement as he selects his next wing.

~

He's known this was coming all along. They’ve even talked about it. Recently. So it shouldn't be this much of a shock - shouldn't _hurt_ like this - when the jail officer and the doctor appear at his cell door flanked by a brace of the Allfather's personal Einherjar commanders. Nor should he be surprised to see their hands full not of food, nor blankets, nor medical supplies, but instead a heavy collar and rune-marked shackles hailing from his adoptive homeland.

So it _does_ catch Loki off-guard when his eyes burn and sting and his mouth goes sticky-dry. He can stand again now, and he should - he is the son of a king, after all - but he- he just doesn't. He sits on his bench and fights not to blink.

"Give me a minute alone with him. Privately," Loki hears Mike request before the door grille goes silent. Muted, probably.

Loki could kill the officer easily with his bare hands now – could end this all quickly and messily, right here on Midgard. He doesn't do that, though, either. He only inclines his head, face carefully blank, as Mike lets himself in and crosses to squat in front of the bench.

"Um." Mike coughs; his voice is wet and raw. "I just wanted to tell you that-."

"-all this lovely metal is here under the King's orders. Don't worry, I know; I grew up there, remember? I won't hold it against you," _you sentimental mortal fool._

Mike holds up a hand, palm out. Stop. "No. Well, yes, you're right about the irons, but that wasn't what I was going to say. What I meant to tell you was that we asked King Odin to consider your situation - the things you have endured, the threat you were operating under - as he determines your sentence, and he has given his word he will do so."

_That,_ Loki was absolutely _not_ expecting. They're ballsy, these particular ants. As soon as he realizes his mouth is hanging open, he hurriedly shuts it.

"Now I don't have any way of figuring out what exactly that means, so I can't make any promises. I just wanted you to know," - Mike stops and wipes angrily at his eyes - "that someone cared enough to try. In case, you know, it matters someday." He can only meet Loki's eyes briefly, which is all for the best anyway. "Okay, down to business. You're to be collared, shackled, and muzzled. The equipment is all clean and properly-maintained - it's not what you were wearing when you were retrieved - and Evon and I are here to endure it is applied and secured humanely."

Mike is looking at him again, waiting for something, so Loki nods.

"And that's where our road together ends. Director Fury will accompany Odin's men to the drop point, to ensure there's no funny business on earth- on Midgard soil. Okay?"

It's yet another one of those pointless, no-real-choice-here questions Mike seems inordinately fond of, but Loki nods anyway. And swallows past the lump in his own throat.

"So, um, goodbye. I hope things work out. And while I expect this is the last we'll see of one another... if we DO meet again, I hope it is under better circumstances."

Mike stands, holding his hand out resolutely for one of those handshakes the mortals often do. Loki takes the offered hand and shakes it firmly, like he knows he's supposed to. He can't quite manage to get out _thank you,_ but he gives Mike's hand a little squeeze before letting go.

From the quick tears that well up in Mike's eyes, Loki's pretty sure he's been understood.

~

The whole thing takes less than five minutes. The guards are skilled and professional - they dress Loki in loose linens and go about securing him with no wasted motion and no unnecessary roughness.

It turns out there's no need for Evon - or Mike himself, for that matter - at all.

And then the little entourage is gone, Fury joining them at the double doors to the outer hall.

Evon helps Mike pick up the last of the blankets and other supplies; one of the guys will scrub the cell and get it ready for the next _guest_ , whoever that might be. Afterwards the doctor stands around awkwardly for a few minutes, but there's nothing _and everything_ left to say and it's not long before he takes his leave as well.

Mike knows he can't stay here; the cleaner will be coming. He walks quietly back to his office, locks up behind himself, and slides slowly down to sit leaning with his back against the door.

And thinks about everything _and nothing_.

And cries.


	13. Epilogue

When they hadn’t gotten another prisoner right away – which wasn’t unusual, really - Mike had instead turned his energy to drills and paperwork. It wasn’t ever quite enough to stave off the looming sense of dread, but at least it helped pass the time.

~

He's deep in a stack of forms when Greg knocks at his door. "Sir?"

"Come on in," Mike offers. "I'm just plowing away at the backlog." He smiles; no reason to take his own mood out on the guys. “I swear this stuff mates in the drawers when we’re not looking.”

Greg doesn’t return his smile. "Um, sir, Director Fury wants to see you in his office - says it's important. And urgent."

_FUCK!_ Mike all but says it, in addition to thinking it. He stands quickly, heart pounding. "Thank you," he thinks he remembers to say as he hurries out into the hall.

~

"Ah, here my man is," Fury says to his phone as Mike rudely, stupidly bursts in without knocking. The one-eyed face with its leather patch is (not atypically, but still!) stern and unreadable. Fury points to a chair; Mike all-but-collapses into it, guts churning.

"I have someone on the phone - don't ask me how - who wishes to give you an update on something he believes may be of some interest," the Director explains.

Mike nods, fervently hoping he doesn't puke on Fury's conference table. Because how embarrassing would that be? And how career-ending.

"Your royal highness, I have Mike here. Mike, Prince Thor."

Fury is never so formal with his Avenger pals. Mike's not sure if he should be terrified or amused. He goes with terrified, just in case. Not like he wasn't already anyway. He can’t get a read off the Director at all, but Loki just has to be dead. He _has_ to be. What else would they urgently need to tell him?

Fuck.

"Your royal h-highness," he stammers. Awesome. He’s flat-out losing his shit.

"I am told I owe you my deepest thanks, Mike, for returning my brother safe to me. And despite his forbidding exterior I do think he would want me to let you know how he is doing."

_Doing_. Wait. Doing: That sounds promising... but who knows how quickly the wheels of Asgardian justice turn. Perhaps anything approaching hope is premature. Mike clears his throat. "You're welcome, of course. And- and yes. Please."

"Father has sentenced him to an extended imprisonment. Possibly permanent; that remains to be seen. But his cell is decent, and I am told he has his books and a little of his magic. So it is not entirely dreadful." Thor coughs. "He is still angry and hurting, Loki is, and I as well. I cannot deal with him like this, but you could. And I am hopeful that, given time, he will come around."

"Thank you, Thor. I'm hopeful too." He is. And what else can he say to a god, after all?

~

Evon's phone buzzes. He pulls it out and checks his messages.

It's Mike: 

_Meet me at the pub in half an hour. For beer._


End file.
